Cathedrals of the Gods
by thedandersen
Summary: The war-weary Colonies of Kobul have been waiting in vain for an answer to their prayers for peace. As the Cylon War draws to a conclusion, their hopes are carried by the young shoulders of Junior Lieutenant Scott Mason. AU set near the end of the first Cylon War - the prequel to "Gods and Arias". Rated M for adult themes and language. Author's original characters.
1. Chapter 1

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

Hello again, reader. It's been a bit of an absence, I know, from my uploads. However, I can't seem to get the story of my friend Mason out of my mind. What I submit now, for your approval, is his story – before he even set foot in the CIC of the _Aria_. I'm not quite sure where we're going just yet, but I hope to provide, as always, with an enjoyable and _fun_ ride for you, reader. As always, I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing.

1.

"Whiskey. Double. Neat."

The young man smirked at the bartender through the hazy air - lit only by the stray bulb and the artificial warmth of neon. Music boomed from somewhere in the corner. The sharp smack of billiard balls against each other was followed by roars of approval and anguish. Laughter floated to the ceiling with the slowly rising cigar smoke.

"Whatever," the bartender, a grizzled old man with scarred hands said as he generously poured the drink.

The young man threw a way-too-much tip in the old man's direction, mostly to get him to go away. He turned, the roughly hewn edge of the bar pressing into his gun belt that rested around his hips. He scanned the crowd, the cocky smirk still splashed across his face as he slowly sipped his drink.

Colonial Fleet regalia was strewn across the walls - pictures of young men and women in green flight suits, smiling and laughing. Any one of the bar's patrons could have swapped places with the photographed people. The crowd was a sea of dark blue uniforms and green flight suits. Typical for one of the only bars on Picon. Most civilians had given up the luxury of drinking for some time. But thirsty Fleet member's cubits were still as good as any others. So the bars stayed open. Business was typically good, considering the cavalier attitude of living for the day embraced by most of the fighting men and women.

"You're not nearly drunk enough," slurred another young man who had trouble keeping his hazel eyes in focus. He kept a death grip on his glass before him, smiling widely.

"I don't think anyone can keep up with you," he replied, his deeply blue eyes smiling back.

"For frak's sake, you're officially a Viper jock now!" said his friend, jabbing a finger at his left chest - right on the shining new pair of Viper wings. "We graduated today! Isn't that cause enough?"

"Of course," the young man said, running a hand through his messy dark brown hair - cropped close on the sides with a little more length on the top - the most he could get away with under regulations. He raised his glass, bumping it roughly against his friend's, and drained it. "To graduating."

"To graduating!" the fellow pilot grinned. He withdrew a fistful of cubits, narrowing his eyes, looking for the bartender. "Hey! Enoch! We're on bingo over here!"

"Shut the frak up and wait your turn!" the grizzled old Enoch roared.

"_You_ shut the frak up!" the intoxicated pilot roared back, slamming his hand on the bar before exploding in a fit of riotous laughter.

Enoch limped over and poured two more generous drinks. He sized them up with a cautious eye, "Y'know, I can't believe they're actually gonna let _you two_ jock Vipers."

"Please, Enoch," the young pilot said, toasting the bartender. "We're the best that's ever been."

"That's what they all say," rumbled the bartender, shaking his head.

"From what I hear, he may be right," said a voice to the pilot's left. A very seductive, soft voice.

Both men turned their heads quickly. The first man raised an eyebrow as his eyes widened. His drunken friend dropped his jaw.

_"Mason!"_ he hissed into the blue eyed pilot's ear. Mason simply placed a palm over his friend's face, forcing him backward without a second thought. He lost his balance on the bar stool and fell cleanly off of it - causing a great cheer to go up from the crowded bar.

"I'm okay!" he said, standing up and dusting off his flight suit. More cheers followed as someone forced a drink into his hand.

The pilot named Mason wasn't concerned. He leaned an elbow on the bar and leaned in closer to the woman. A splash of blonde hair stopped just short of the dark blue shoulders of her uniform. She looked at him intently with pale blue eyes and a smile.

"And you are?" Mason asked.

"Thirsty," she smiled, looking him up and down with no attempt to hide it. "Buy me a drink?"

"Um," the young pilot hesitated. "Yeah! Uh...Enoch!"

"Stop your carrying on," Enoch growled, refilling the woman's glass before retreating off to a darkened corner behind the bar and lighting a cigarette.

"I still didn't get your name," Mason had to yell over the music.

"But I got yours," the corner of her mouth curved upward into a smile. "You're apparently the famous Scott Mason."

"Well," the famous Scott Mason replied, shrugging emphatically. "I wouldn't say _famous..._"

"Right," she said, downing her drink and grabbing his gun belt, pulling him toward her. She curled a finger around the upper zipper of his flight suit, toying with it playfully. "You wanna get out of here?"

"You have no idea," Mason whispered, staring into her eyes as the whiskey slowly warmed his veins.

She laughed softly, leaning in and gently tugging on the lobe of his ear with her lips.

"Look at this man work!" bellowed his friend from a short distance away, pointing. "I know him! I know this man!"

"Emory, shut the frak up!" Mason smiled as he yelled back at Emory. The woman grabbed his arm and quickly began making for the side exit.

"I hate the frakking air you breathe you frak!" Emory laughed and raised his glass with the rest of the cheering crowd as they watched the young pilot being whisked away out of the bar.

* * *

She slammed him against the side of the old brick building, the pouring rain instantly soaking them both. She crashed her mouth into his - hard. Mason barely had time to think before she forced his mouth open and slipped her tongue in. He then decided thinking wasn't necessary as he assisted her out of the regulation Colonial Fleet uniform jacket - something he was familiar in taking off.

The rain instantly soaked the black-over-gray shirts she wore underneath - making them cling to her curving figure. Mason ran his hands over this figure as she unzipped the top of his flight suit. He took over control, quickly flipping their places and forcing her against the wall, kissing her with a vehemence that could only be described as lust.

She moaned as his mouth travelled down her neck, gently sucking and tasting her skin. She ran her hands under the hem of his shirt, felling his skin underneath.

Mason smiled as his hands came to rest behind her hips, gipping her tightly...

"Beverly?!"

Her eyes snapped open. She quickly pushed Mason away from her.

"Beverly, what the frak?" a hulking Fleet Marine yelled, walking quickly toward Mason. "Who the frak is this?"

"David, hang on -"

"What the frak's your story, fly boy?" the Marine named David grabbed Mason's shoulder and shoved him backwards.

"Listen, I think this is kind of a misunderstanding," Mason said, holding up his hands, trying not to laugh.

"Oh you think this is real frakking funny, you frakking flap piece of shit!" this David character screamed, his breath reeking of alcohol.

"No, no-"

"David! Shut up! Let's go!" the soaking wet blonde, apparently named Beverly, yelled.

"You shut the frak up you bitch!" the Marine snarled, backhanding the blonde with enough force to send her tumbling.

Mason's smirk disappeared. He stepped forward, grabbing the Marine's wrist in an iron grip, "Now was that really necessary?"

"Hey D! There a problem out here?" yelled another Marine. Who was followed by another. And another. And another.

"Oh, shit," Mason whispered, looking at the four additional Marines who had stepped out into the rain.

"Yeah, oh shit," Marine David smiled menacingly. "Not so tough now, are we?"

"Hey! Frak-head!"

The Marine turned his head just in time to be struck violently by a rubbish bin lid by Emory. He swayed on the spot momentarily before crumpling to the ground.

Mason sighed, "Gods damn it, Garrett..."

"I'm gonna frakking kill you!" one of the other Marines bellowed as he sprinted towards the two pilots, winding up a haymaker.

Mason ducked the wild punch - his reaction time impeccable, even after drinking. He jumped into the air, swinging a knee into the Marine's gut. His wind left him in a wheeze.

Emory spun about, launching the rubbish bin lid like a disk, striking another Marine in the forehead, launching his feet out from under him.

"Ha!" Emory cackled.

The remaining two Marines weren't entertained. One loosed a devastating punch aimed for Emory's nose. Emory ducked, Mason didn't.

Mason took the man's fist to the jaw, reeling away. The world spun around him.

"Hey!" Emory screamed, jabbing the Marine in the throat.

Patrons streamed out of the bar at the commotion. Instantly, pilots were rushing to the aid of their own, as were Marines. Rubbish bins, bottles, and fists flew through the air as an all-out brawl ensued.

Mason had landed squarely on his backside, sitting up in a puddle. He spat blood out of his mouth as he tried to collect himself. Shaking off the dizziness, he sized up the brawl before him.

"Oh frak," he sighed, trying to pick out Emory. He did so in time to see his friend take a devastating blow from the same Marine he had clocked with the lid of the bin. "Oh frak, oh frak, oh frak."

Mason dove into the fray, grabbing the startled Marine's collar and letting fly with a series of punishing rights. He discarded the soldier and grabbed the staggering Emory - who was letting a string of profanity loose that would have given a twenty-year fleet veteran pause. He placed his friend's arm around his shoulders and began half carrying, half dragging him away.

"Holy frakking mother of Athena, Garrett," Mason gasped.

"I had 'im," Emory mumbled.

"Yeah, sure you did," Mason muttered. Sirens pierced the sounds of the fight and thunderstorm overhead.

_"Fleet Police! Hands in the air!"_

"Fraaaaaak," Mason sighed.

"What happened?" Emory asked, delirious.

* * *

"So, Junior Lieutenant Mason and Junior Lieutenant Emory, please, tell me that I am dreaming. Please tell me that I'm simply having a nightmare. This bad dream begins when I arrive in the morning - and before I've even had coffee, mind you - I am informed that two of my pilots incited a _riot_ outside The Bent Bird last night -"

"Sir, to be fair-" Emory began.

"Please shut the frak up, Garrett, while you still possess the ability to make the choice," a calm-sounding Major Adrian Nelson said. The man's mastery of passive-aggressive was astounding. He took a deep breath before continuing, "And these pilots, if you can believe it, were dropped off _in my office_ by the Fleet Police not just moments ago. Doesn't that sound like a bad dream, gentlemen? Or am I just being a frakking crybaby about all of this?"

Mason bit his lips together momentarily, standing at a very uneasy at-ease, "No, sir. You are certainly not being a crybaby, sir. And it sounds like a terrible dream, sir."

Nelson nodded, apparently deep in thought, "Yes. Yes it does. Lieutenant Emory, do you believe that it's _possible_ that this dream is somehow reality?"

"Sir, I don't believe that I'm in any position to render an opinion on the subject," Emory replied.

"Humor me," Nelson growled. It wasn't a request.

Emory shifted his weight onto the heels momentarily, casting a quick sideways glance at Mason, "Sir, I believe it's possible."

"Strange. I thought so, too," the commander pondered. "Now, Lieutenant Mason, could you speculate as to _why_ such a thing were to have occurred? If it even did occur at all, of course."

Mason, having accepted the inevitability of his impending death, cleared his throat, "Well, um, sir, perhaps these two pilots you are currently dreaming of were caught completely off guard and simply defending themselves, sir."

"It's possible, yes," Nelson continued to nod. "And maybe even plausible. Until someone tells me that a certain pilot _tossed a rubbish bin lid_, like some manner of sporting disk, mind you, at the _head_ of a fellow Colonial Fleet member. Then the whole thing seems to go out the airlock, doesn't it?"

"Sir, if I really can just explain-" Emory stabbed again.

"Gods above, Emory, you really don't know when to quit, do you?" Nelson snapped out of his passive-aggressive state, his face astounded.

"No, sir, it would appear that I do not," Emory relented, looking at the floor.

"Gentlemen, we are at _war_, in case you haven't heard. Also, if you haven't heard, it really isn't going that hot for us right now," Nelson continued, his voice deadpan. "And while beating the frak out of Marines used to be a fun pastime for Viper jocks - it is something we can no longer afford to do. Frakkin' son of Zeus, guys, you graduated _yesterday_! You don't even have callsigns yet! And you have to push it like this?"

"Sir, it's my fault," Mason said, looking at a spot somewhere above Nelson's head. "I should've known better."

"It's not a matter of who's girlfriend you were trying to frak, Mason," Nelson rumbled. "It's the fact that you_ both_ engaged when you should've called it a night. You're not kids fresh out of boot anymore. You're Viper pilots. About to get your asses neck-deep in the shit. This cannot happen again. If it does, you're gonna be flying frakkin civvie airliners faster than you can unzip your suit. That will be all."

"Sir," both Mason and Emory drew themselves to attention, saluted, and made rapid egress from the room.

* * *

"Well, that could've gone worse," Emory said, shrugging.

Mason cracked up slightly, his jaw throbbing. "Yeah. Definitely."

"Frak, Scott," his friend sighed. "You don't think they'll…"

"No," he replied, falling in step with Emory as they stepped outside into the bright sunlight. He understood that Emory was inquiring as to whether or not their careers were in jeopardy. Mason knew better. It would take more than just a bar fight to ground two pilots.

"I didn't think so," Emory muttered, sliding his sunglasses on as Mason did the same. "I just wish we could get going into the shit, y'know?"

Mason nodded, understanding, "I know. It's about damn time."

The young men strode a while longer back to the junior officer's dorms. Mason strode inside, followed closely by Emory.

The applause that greeted them in the lobby was, mildly speaking, thunderous. Most of the graduating class was gathered in the common area, some of them displaying minor wounds from the previous evening. However, all persons gathered were grinning, slapping Mason and Emory on their backs, singing their praises.

"We really frakked up those marines, Scott!"

"Garrett! Did you actually _throw a trash can lid?_"

"Unbelievable," Mason muttered, smiling.

"You're frakkin' right I did!" Emory shouted to a general roar of approval. Instantly he was ensnared into a verbal replay of the scrap. Mason folded his arms, smiling and listening to the somewhat polished version of events.

Mason's thoughts drifted away among the laughter of the young officers gathered. Maybe it was the slight hangover – or maybe he was a little concussed. He couldn't decide which.

"-and then Scott absolutely _leveled _this guy-"

More laughter followed. Mason held up a hand in modesty.

"No, seriously, it was beyond excellent, then I…"

Mason sighed, looking away. His eyes followed the floor – landing on a pair of polished, black boots. He quickly looked upward, his eyes then landing on the shining diamond Captain's insignia of the person leaning on a support column near him.

"_Attention on deck!"_ Mason bellowed, his baritone voice ringing off the walls. Pilots scrambled to their feet, hastily drawing themselves up to attention.

The captain stood for a moment, a grizzled looking man of perhaps forty. His hair was a dark shade of gray, and his brown eyes appeared humorless.

"Well," he said in a harsh voice barely above a whisper. "If I were a Cylon, you'd all be dead, that much is certain."

Mason blinked, trying not to look directly at the senior officer. It seemed to make no difference to this captain who had seemingly materialized on the spot.

"I need to see Abrams, Bailey, Bakker, Emory, Larson, Mason, Osbourne, and Simms," the man said, reading the names off of the stack of corresponding envelopes he held in his hands. "The rest of you take a frakking walk."

Eight bodies remained rooted to the spot as the rest of the pilots stampeded out of the common area – some making for the exits, others for the stairs or the elevator. Mason was motionless, silently contemplating career options for dishonorably discharged fleet members.

"Right, you eight, bring it in," whispered the old captain. "And for the love of Zeus, stand at ease."

The eight remaining young men uneasily formed a semi-circle around him. Nobody had the gall to speak.

"I'm Captain Lazarus Hellewell, callsign 'Hellfire'," he began. "I'm the interim CAG of the _Cathedral_. Now I'm not really sure how smart all of you fraks are, given both your facial expressions and the shit you pulled at the bar last night, but I think you're all with it enough to have figured out that you're all going to be coming with me today."

Mason blinked, looking now at the elder man.

"These are your orders, but don't bother to open them. They all say the same thing – be on the outbound shuttle for the Scorpion yards at thirteen thirty. I'll meet you all on the shuttle and give you more information then. Questions?"

"Sir, Junior Lieutenant A-" Bakker extended a hand to Hellewell. The captain held up his own in protest.

"I don't wanna know your names because you'll most likely be dead in a few weeks anyway," he said, his eyes cold. "Now, any questions on the orders?"

The group was silent.

"Well," Hellfire raised his eyebrows and gestured with the stack of envelopes. "Get your shit."

* * *

"What the frak?" Emory yelled at the ceiling, hastily stuffing duty tank tops into his ruck.

Mason shrugged, his mouth full of a stale-flavored protein bar from the morning's ration. He set his bulging ruck sack on his rickety former dorm bed and picked up the orders, re-reading them for the fourth time.

"I mean, you'd think they'd give us a day's warning or something," Emory continued. "Where the frak is my toothbrush…"

"Y'know, you were just saying how you wanted to get into the shit," Mason raised an eyebrow at his roommate.

"Yeah, but so quick?" he said, stuffing his toothbrush hastily into his shaving kit. "Typically it's at least two weeks, even at war, before nuggets are shipped out to their first duty station."

"Extraordinary times, my friend," Mason nodded, tearing another chunk of protein bar off with his teeth. "One day we're feet dry cozy on Picon, the next we're halfway across the damned galaxy, fighting for our lives. How 'bout that?"

"Absolutely nuts," Emory sighed, surveying his side of the comparably spacious dorm. "I think I've got everything."

Mason nodded, thankful that he himself didn't possess much. He enjoyed living out of a duffel bag most of the time. It was a certain freedom to be able to pick up and move freely, taking everything you own with you. Perhaps it was why he enjoyed the spartan life of the military.

"Well, you ready?" Emory said, turning to him and smirking.

"As I'll ever be," Mason smirked in return, hoisting his ruck to his shoulder. He had hoped that being moved around over the past four years in the military would have prepared him better for this moment. However, the feeling in the pit of his stomach reminded him of the feeling he had leaving Tauron just weeks after he had come of age. Anticipation built, and his smirk turned into a sly smile as he and Emory caught a ride on the tailgate of a passing pickup.

The young men hopped off with unusual grace as the pickup cruised slowly past the airfield terminal – a place they both knew well.

"Shame we can't stop in for a quick farewell toast," Emory looked longingly in the direction of the terminal's rather small but well-equipped watering hole.

"Gods, I know," Mason sighed, flashing his identification card to the marine posted by the doors to the tarmac.

The marine casually glanced at both men's cards and scowled respectively at them.

"Right," Emory raised an eyebrow over the frame of his sunglasses.

A blast of warm air and the whine of turbofan engines greeted them as they strode toward the small, streamlined military shuttle. Hellfire was waiting for them at the back loading ramp, his gray hair waving in the breeze. He wasn't smiling. Nor did it appear that he ever had in his life.

"About time, nuggets," he remarked as they strode up the ramp, each saluting.

Mason stowed his bag under one of the remaining jump seats, and began the familiar process of strapping himself down to the aircraft.

"Now that dipshit one and dipshit two have decided to join us," Hellfire snarled from the back.

"Frak," Emory whispered.

"Next stop will be your new home for the duration of your deployment. Get intimately familiar with the faces around you, as they will be your only friends on board. Respect is not given, but earned aboard the _Cathedral_, gentlemen. Keep that in mind. Welcome to the fleet."

Hellewell cackled, sitting down in the rearmost jump seat and strapping himself in.

Mason glanced to his right as he felt Emory's shoulder press into his as he rummaged in his pockets.

"Gonna be a long hop," Emory smirked at him before placing a pinch of rolled fumella leaves under his lip. He snapped the tin closed with a flourish and stuffed it back into one of the many pockets on his flight suit.

"That's ok," Mason replied, leaning his head back on the wall of the shuttle and smiling as the cabin lights dimmed. "Pretty soon we'll be the ones flying."

"Frakkin' right," Emory smiled as the familiar sensation of rapid acceleration pressed them back into their seats.

A small voice in Mason's head, and indeed every pilot's head, whispered "cycle" as the shuttle lifted effortlessly from the ground. Mason could tell the guy driving had spent a few hours in this particular craft. The pilot slammed the throttle forward, opening up the tyllium engines with a frame-shaking roar as the shuttle tore through the fabric of the placid Picon sky.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Mason still hadn't quite grown comfortable with the sensation of dropping out of FTL. It felt like being sunk into an almost too-cold bath, creeping along the skin like a benign, albeit annoying insect.

"Take a look, nuggets," Hellfire said from the back, glancing out a window. "Isn't she beautiful?"

Mason and Emory turned to the porthole located behind their seats. Both tried to retain their audible gasps.

The sight of a Battlestar was enough to make almost any person pause what they were doing and afford a long double-take. The massive vessel dwarfed the personnel shuttle. Fifty inch guns bristled from her sides, almost too many to count. Even more defensive net flak guns were wedged in between and all around the main batteries. The ship in her entirety was a dark, metallic gray – with exception given to the fiercely printed, hundred-meter tall letters spelling the name _Cathedral_ along both her launch pods. Six tyllium engines burned with a bluish-white flame to the stern of the ship, propelling the entire mass forward. Her alligator-shaped bow appeared furrowed, angry at the thought of anyone taking their chances with her.

"Holy gods," Emory whispered, in a rare moment of genuine awe.

"It's…it's _huge_," Mason breathed.

"Fifteen hundred meters from bow to stern, nearly five hundred and fifty from rail to rail. Now, please tell me you all have at least _seen_ a Battlestar before?" Hellfire had risen from his seat, taking in the view now from behind Mason and Emory.

"Well, yes, sir, but it's…it's just…" Emory was still at a loss for words.

"It's the _Cathedral_. The finest frakking Battlestar in the Fleet. I shit you not, gentlemen, before Cylons go to bed at night, they check under their beds for anyone wearing a _Cathedral_ patch on their uniforms," Hellfire's voice had a distinct trace of pride in it. "And to think, _you_ people have been selected to serve aboard her. The gods must've sold you all under lucky stars."

Emory and Mason exchanged looks, both trying to suppress smiles. The shuttle banked sharply, joining the landing pattern circling a scant five kilometers from the ship.

The pilot had plugged in the wireless traffic over the speakers, probably because he knew that's what the particular group of passengers wanted to hear. Mason loved the fact that pilots understood each other.

"Cathedral_, shuttle eight-eight-five, callsign Redwood, request non-priority vector for land."_

"_Eight-eighty-five, Redwood, _Cathedral_ air, we got you, take heading two-nine-three, speed your discretion, combat landing authorized, switch to niner for landing."_

"_Roger, two-nine-three, speed is mine, good day."_

Mason sat back in his chair, holding onto the shoulder belts that secured him to the jump seat. Combat landings. The young pilot was familiar with both automated and combat landings – preferring the latter. He understood, being a time of war, that combat landings were the new norm. Society itself had shied away from anything automated – and the Fleet's fighting forces simply could not afford to employ anything automatic. Mason secretly preferred this. He liked being in control of whatever it was that he was doing – in all aspects, not just flying.

"_Redwood, paddles, you're at three klicks, checkers red, call the ball."_

"_Roger, Redwood has the ball."_

"_Roger, take Fox Seven elevator upon arrival."_

"_Fox Seven, roger."_

Mason glanced at Emory, who was tightening his harness slightly. Emory smirked, "combat landings. I frakking love it."

Mason nodded, squinting to see through the porthole on the other side of the shuttle as the nimble craft shot through the starboard landing pod with a speed that impressed him. His instinct felt the skids of the shuttle nearing the deck, anticipating perfectly as the shuttle lightly touched down. The vessel sped along the deck, gently reversing its engines and coming to a halt directly next to its assigned elevator.

The eight rookie pilots, knowing well enough the rough part of the landing was over, quickly stood out of their seats, stooping slightly in the cramped cabin, and began retrieving their effects.

"Once you're aboard," Hellfire spoke from the back of the shuttle, "head over to new personnel indoc office – conveniently located for you idiots right outside the hanger deck. Don't talk to any of the knuckle draggers, because most of them are incapable of intelligent conversation. Get checked in, find your bunks, get your asses something to eat in the mess, and be ready to go tomorrow morning at zero-five. We'll fix all that bullshit you learned at basic flight and teach you to fly the way we do on the _Cathedral_."

The shuttle was hooked up to a towing vehicle after its slow descent through the airlock into the hanger deck.

"Sir, can you tell us where the mess is?" someone spoke as the shuttle was towed to a hanger bay slot.

"Do I look like a frakking tour guide?" Hellfire's voice boomed with laughter. "The ship's only so big. You're bound to find it."

Emory snorted in laughter as the loading ramp opened. Mason smirked, following his friend onto the deck. Instantly, he was greeted by a dull roar of tyllium engines, men and women yelling across the hanger, equipment running, and the occasional very loud bang, followed by deeply organic language. The air was thick with the smell of burned tyllium and fresh welding smoke.

"Nice enough place," Emory remarked as he and Mason strode into the main corridor connecting the hanger to the ship – placed in one of the connecting buttresses bridging the launch pod with the main body of the ship. The bulkheads were, naturally, unadorned and painted a shade of dark gray. Harsh fluorescent lighting glowing from high-efficiency bulbs left most surfaces without a shadow. The deck beneath their boots was typical diamond-grated steel. The smell of the air had switched into something clean and slightly dry – the smell of recycled air.

Bulging rucks on their shoulders, they joined the line that had formed in front of a small information booth that looked like it had been stuffed into the hallway as an afterthought. Military life was abundant with standing in lines, and it was a skill that Emory and Mason had perfected.

"Number and name, sir," said the bored-looking petty officer behind the desk as Mason stepped up.

"Zero-Five-Five-Seven-Two-Zero-Nine-One-One, Mason, Scott T," the young pilot rattled off in about two seconds, having done the process thousands of times before.

"Welcome aboard, sir," the petty officer said, with no genuine intention. He reached into a tray directly below an odd-looking machine to his right, and pulled out two shining new octagonal tags, tossing them at Mason after running them through a chain. "Next!"

Mason caught the tags and stepped to the side as Emory stepped up to the desk. He gripped the tags in his hand, feeling the warmth still radiating from them. He almost smiled as he looked at the fresh laser engraving.

"CATHEDRAL 055720911 LT. J.G. MASON, SCOTT T."

Emory nodded to him, stepping away from the desk. The men placed the new tags around their necks as they strode further down the hallway and into the ship.

"We're actually here," Mason remarked to Emory. "Actually, physically, no-shit here at the duty station. On a ship, here to fly birds."

"You know it," Emory smiled as they came to a T. His smile faded slightly, "Which way?"

Mason blinked, "You're asking me? I've never been here."

Personnel bustled to and fro down the hallway, everyone casually disregarding the two blatantly new pilots rooted to the spot.

"Nuggets?" asked a voice behind the men.

Mason and Emory turned slowly, beholding a man dressed in a flight suit, as they were. He had forgone zipping it entirely up, bunching it rather around his waist and tying it off. He smirked at the two younger men standing before him.

"Pretty obvious, right?" Mason asked, looking at the floor and laughing slightly.

"Painfully obvious," the man replied. "Lieutenant Jimmy Ross, callsign Roundhouse. Follow me."

"Thanks. Scott Mason," Mason replied.

"Garrett Emory," Emory nodded as the trio took the left-hand turn of the T.

"From Caprica?" Roundhouse asked Emory.

"How'd you know?" he replied.

"I can hear a Caprican accent from across the hanger deck," smirked the older pilot. "And you, Mason, I can just tell you're from Tauron."

"Pretty good," Mason nodded, realizing that he had nearly forgotten to notice Emory's crisp Caprican accent in the months prior they had been spending at basic flight. "I didn't think Taurons had an accent."

"Well, you do," Roundhouse replied, ducking through a bulkhead door and taking a right. "Deadpan with emphasis placed on some vowels. It's just something you pick up. Not like anyone here gives a flying frak at a rolling doughnut where you're from – all twelve colonies are represented here. Even those frakkin' crazy Saggitarian people, if you can believe that noise."

Mason was trying vainly to remember the way the group had taken from the hanger deck – but realized it was hopeless. They had taken an impossible number of turns and gone up at least two decks since meeting Roundhouse.

"Here you go, junior officers quarters," Roundhouse said, spinning the wheel on the bulkhead door, raising an eyebrow at Mason and Emory. "Prepare yourselves."

"It can't be that bad," Emory smirked at Mason, his hazel eyes squinting with humor. Mason smiled in return, noticing that the door had a very large, hand-painted "3" on it. He found that peculiar in the midst of the all-stenciled lettering found around the ship.

The door swung noisily open – the hinges moaning in protest. Instantly a roar of laughter followed by a slight haze of cigar smoke rolled out into the hallway. Electronic music with a throbbing bass line boomed out of speakers placed along the ceilings.

"Don't you guys have a rec room?" Mason yelled over the music.

"Nope!" Roundhouse yelled back. "They converted that into another sick bay! So we're making due here! Nuggets get top bunks – throw your shit up there!"

"Gods above, Roundhouse, close the frakking door!" yelled someone.

"Go play a game of hide and go frak yourself!" Roundhouse roared back, smiling.

Mason held his ruck above his head as he waded around the mass of humanity gathered around tables or standing in groups. He noticed that most of the squadron patches worn on the shoulders of those gathered read "Vigilantes," emblazoned with the number "3."

"Holy Poseidon's ass, let me guess, you two have been in the Fleet since breakfast," chirped a seated pilot in Mason's direction.

Mason understood what it was to be a new guy. He had done his share of chirping, as they called it, to the new recruits at basic flight school back on Picon. He knew it would pass in time.

"Yes, sir, since breakfast," Mason replied, tossing his ruck onto a top bunk bed in the corner.

"Well. You managed to find your way to the home of the Vigilantes. You're in luck. We're the frakking best squadron in the fleet," said the seated pilot, raising his voice with his last statement, causing a cheer to go up from the other fifteen or so gathered people. He ran a hand though his platinum blonde spiked hair, smiling, "Name's Livewire. 'Wire' for short. Welcome to the third."

"Mason."

"Emory."

"Right, whatever," Wire laughed. "Listen, do us all a favor and forget everything Roundhouse said to you. It's all lies and slander made up by a guy who sometimes forgets his own name."

"Wire! Shut the frak up! I'd tell you to shove your head up your ass but you couldn't find it with both hands and a map!" Roundhouse bellowed from the other side of the room.

Emory threw his ruck into the bunk next to Mason's unceremoniously. The two stood for a moment or two – taking in the quarters around them, almost hesitant to speak.

"Hey! New guys!" Roundhouse had taken a seat at a small table. "Head down to the mess before they close and get something to eat."

"Where, um," Mason asked sheepishly, amazed at how out-of-character he had become. "Where's the mess, sir?"

"Down this corridor, up three decks, on your right-hand side, you can't miss it," Roundhouse gestured wildly with a freshly lit cigar.

Mason exchanged a look with Emory before nodding and wading his way back through the mass of bodies to the bulkhead door. Emory followed, sealing the door behind them.

"Nice guys," he remarked after spinning the large wheel securing the door.

"Yeah," Mason smiled as the two ventured further down the hallway outside the bunk room. Every so often, one or the other would poke their heads into side doors, searching vainly for a set of stairs to take them up the supposed three decks, but to no avail.

"A machine shop, weapons shop, barracks, barracks, more barracks, everything but the frakkin' mess," Emory muttered as they continued in the direction of what they thought was forward on the ship.

"There's gotta be stairs here somewhere," Mason said, feeling frustrated. He glanced at a nearby clock, instantly appalled, "how is it already twenty-two hundred?"

"They run on Caprica Mean Time, genius," Emory laughed at him. "Remember? There's no way to tell night or day when you're in the middle of space, so all fleet ships run on one time – Caprica time. Which is only proper."

Mason almost rolled his eyes as Emory finished his statement with a trace of pride in his voice. Finally, they arrived at a set of stairs leading upward.

"Three decks up," Mason whispered as they negotiated the narrow stairs, sliding past other personnel in what would be considered a violation of personal space in some polite societies.

"Frakkin' finally," Emory muttered. "I'm starving."

They gravitated towards a doorway where many people were making both hurried entry and egress, assuming it could only be the mess.

Mason wondered briefly why two armed fleet marines would be standing outside the mess, but disregarded his inquisitive self as his stomach growled. He stepped inside the mess, hoping the chow was at least warm and palatable.

"Scott, this…isn't the mess," Emory whispered from someplace behind his right shoulder.

"No shit," Mason hissed back.

The circular CIC was dimly lit, with at least two dozen different commissioned and non-commissioned officers manning various panels. There was a quiet, ever-present buzz in the air as wireless traffic was exchanged on a multitude of channels around the ship. Senior officers gripped heavy, black corded phones in their hands and stared grimly at various readouts.

Mason turned slowly, as not to attract attention. Emory nodded slightly in agreement and also turned for the door, just as a dull roar was heard. The ship shuddered slightly, causing mugs of coffee to be spilled and the odd person to check their balance.

"The frak was that?" barked a salty-looking colonel from the central navigation table.

Emory reached out a hand and steadied Mason, though neither man lost his footing. They exchanged confused expressions.

"Dradis contact!" a petty officer sang out. "Cylon raiders! One squadron just dropped from FTL! CBDR carem one-three-niner, closing hot!"

"We definitely don't want to be here," Emory muttered, his eyebrows raised.

"_Action stations – action stations – set condition one throughout the ship, this is not a drill, action stations, action stations!"_

"Oh frak," Mason said. "Ooooooh frak."

"Make a hole!" growled a voice coming from the doorway.

Instantly, Mason and Emory were forced apart by a pair of powerful arms. A man of about fifty or so with a shock of white hair parted the two easily as he strode into the CIC. The dim light of the room still managed to reflect brightly off the insignia on the man's collar.

"Commander! Raider squadron, closing fast!" the salty colonel called from lower down in the deck.

Mason's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline as he exchanged a "holy-shit" look with Emory. Without another word, the two dove for the exit.

"This is just frakking excellent!" Emory yelled over the din of alarms and dozens of boots pounding the metal deck. "Where are we supposed to be?"

Mason glanced over his shoulder and shrugged, hoping he was indeed running aft. They were both of the mindset that the best place to be was probably right back where they came from – at least to touch base with Roundhouse or Wire in order to ascertain what it was exactly they were to be doing.

"It really would've been nice to have a welcoming presentation or something," Emory snickered as they pressed themselves against a bulkhead, allowing a group of fire brigade personnel to pass with speed.

"That would make sense, though," Mason replied sarcastically.

"Hey! Nuggets!" barked a voice.

The pair turned to see Wire waving at them frantically from further down the hall, dressed in full flight gear. They sprinted towards him.

"Let me guess, Roundhouse sent you to CIC," Wire was cracking up.

"Yeah," Mason nodded, running next to the senior pilot, assuming correctly it was his intention to guide them.

Wire broke out laughing as he made turn after turn, "That's outstanding! Keep following me, guys, you need to see how this shit works."

Without notice, the three burst onto the hanger deck, where the Battlestar's primary function of launching Mark II Vipers was in full swing. If it was seemingly disorganized ship side, it was absolute chaos on the hanger deck. Organized chaos. Each Viper had its own crew focused on nothing more than shoving the space superiority fighter into the launch tubes as quickly as possible.

"Come on!" Wire bellowed as he nimbly navigated his way around speeding vehicles and personnel. Emory and Mason followed as quickly as they could, trying with earnest to say out of the way.

Wire arrived shortly at his Viper – a Mark II with a few dings around the edges. He leapt up the boarding ladder in two strides and landed in the ejection seat perfectly – as if he had done that particular thing no less than one hundred times previously. He turned and grinned down at the two nuggets standing just below him.

"This is what you do once you get your birds! Haul ass down here, get in, and get the frak out there! You two should head up to combat planning – ask for directions, for frak's sake! Listen in and watch how we do this!"

Mason watched as the fighter was quickly towed into the launch tube and hooked to the launching strut. A young man of probably no more than twenty years jammed the strut securely to the front landing gear of Wire's Viper before sprinting out of the launch tube, narrowly avoiding the closing blast doors.

Emory yanked Mason's arm over to a small room beside the launch tube. Inside, a junior officer was equalizing the pressure of the launch tube – venting what atmosphere there was inside to space by opening the outer doors. He glanced up with a haggard expression, "The frak do you two want?"

"I don't even know where we're supposed to be," Mason shrugged. "But I thought we should watch this."

The younger officer nodded, as though he had seen this before, "this is a launch tube control. I'm what's called a shooter. I shoot the planes into the frakkin' air. As soon as the Viper is loaded and locked, with the doors closed, I equalize pressure and charge the catapult. I'll then thumbs up you dumbass pilots – " which he immediately did in Wire's direction "-and the all-holy Viper jock replies with a thumbs up and then salutes me-" which Wire did crisply "-I salute in return as you pilots lay into your throttle-" Wire's Viper pushed a deluge of bluish white flame out of its engines "-and launch your ass out into the fray-"

The Viper launched with blinding speed down the tunnel. In an instant, the tube was empty, and the shooter was re-pressurizing it to normal atmosphere.

"Now, questions?" the shooter asked, shaking his head sadly at the two grinning pilots.

"No, man, that was awesome," Emory smiled.

"Then get the frak out of here, we're under attack if you haven't heard," the shooter said sardonically as the next Viper was being loaded. "Go make yourselves useful."

"Thanks, man!" Mason made a hasty exit from the shooter's perch and ran across the flight deck, looking wildly for a door that would lead them to combat planning.

"You're still guessing, aren't you?" Emory's Caprican accent asked him.

"Kind of," Mason's eye caught some stenciled lettering on the bulkhead just outside of the doors to the flight deck. "Check it out. Directions."

"Well," Emory said, narrowing his hazel eyes. "That makes sense."

"Literally, for a change," Mason agreed.

"Combat planning. Deck Ten, Section 9," Emory read. "We are on…deck one, section five. Aft four sections, up nine decks."

"Great," Mason muttered at the prospect of climbing more stairs.

The two pilots quickly found a set of stairs leading upward and took them with speed. For the most part, the ship had stopped any radical movement. The deep thrum of the engines resonated through the support columns, punctuated regularly by the rumbling booms of the big guns. Also heard were the near-constant pages over the speakers for damage control parties, medics, and various personnel.

Mason and Emory burst through the doors of combat planning with no warning. The room was lit dimly by soft blue lighting. In the center of the room was a rather large navigational table, with a scale model of the _Cathedral_ sitting in the middle. It's intended purpose had been forgone for the engagement, however, as it now served as some manner of filing cabinet and coffee table in one.

"About time you two found your way here," growled Hellfire from the other side of the room.

"Sir, I apologize, but-" Emory started.

"Whatever. Get over here and get your eyes on the dradis, watch how this works," the CAG said, jerking his head in the direction of the screen where most of the attention was focused.

"_-Wire, you got him?-"_

"_-Yeah!"_

"_-watch it now – on your six, on your six!"_

"_-bring her hard port!"_

"_Roundhouse splash one!"_

The wireless traffic was constant with raised voices, the communication constant between the pilots. Mason's mind strained to match the voices with the various blips on the dradis zooming around. He watched closely as the Colonial pilots adhered to some basic fundamentals. The squadrons remained loosely together – close enough to remain accountable, but loose enough as not to present one massive flying target. Within the squadrons, pairs of fighters remained together – each pair working on isolating Raiders.

"They're picking them out," Mason muttered to Emory.

"And then they take them down one by one as they're isolated," Emory almost whispered back, nodding.

"_-bring him around, Wire!"_

"_Coming at you!"_

"_-easy now!"_

"You boys just learned your first critical lesson," Hellfire growled, his eyes locked on the dradis screen. "We never work alone. Always in teams. Scuttlebutt has it that you two already found your way to the third. Gods help you, then. They're the best. And they remain the best by weeding out those who don't make the cut. But all you have to do is watch them work – like this."

Emory shot a subtle look at Mason, who glanced at his friend in return, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

"Cathedral_ this is roundhouse, remaining Raiders are buggin' out!"_

"_Roundhouse_, Cathedral_ actual, you know the drill, chase 'em down before they jump."_

"_Aye, sir!"_

"That quick," Emory remarked.

"That quick," Hellfire nodded. "It doesn't take long sometimes. As soon as the Cylons determine they're at a tactical disadvantage, they'll retire and save as many Raiders as they can. Each time they come, it's a slightly different approach. They keep testing us and testing us, trying to find a weakness."

"Have they yet?" Mason asked, almost despite himself.

"We're still here, aren't we?" the CAG cackled. He glanced upwards toward the door, squinting at a figure entering. He filled his lungs and growled, "Attention on deck!"

Mason and Emory snapped to as the figure strode into the room, hastily holding up a hand with a rumbling, "As you were."

Personnel returned to their seats. Mason and Emory stood at ease, not really sure what to do. Their jaws respectively clenched a little bit as the figure of the Commander appeared in the dim blue light.

"Well, Lazarus, what's the butcher's bill?" the commander asked, with a casual sideways glance at the two nuggets.

"Lost three, sir," Hellfire replied, standing at ease, his voice noticeably softer.

The Commander nodded, humming slowly. His entire persona radiated confidence and poise. He appeared to know exactly everything concerned with everything, all at one time. He glanced again at the two nuggets.

"Gods, you're young enough to be my grandkids," he laughed gruffly. His face was creased, but rugged. His handshake was slightly softer than Mason expected. "Weissbach."

"Sir, Junior Lieutenant Mason."

"Junior Lieutenant Emory, sir."

"Welcome aboard. Glad to have you two. Learn everything from Hellfire as you can. And try to avoid the CIC when action stations are called, eh? You boys probably want to be flying birds instead of being holed up in this hulk, I'm assuming," Weissbach smirked, the senior Viper pilot's wings shining on his chest.

"Yes, sir," Emory replied. Mason nodded, agreeing.

"Good. A report, when you can, Lazarus," the commander nodded in the direction of Hellfire as he turned to leave.

"Aye, sir," Hellfire said. He turned to the two nuggets, his eyes narrowing, "You two were in the _frakking CIC_ when action stations were called?"

Mason swallowed hard, "Yes, sir."

"Do yourselves a favor and frakking vanish from anywhere _near_ the CIC for the rest of the cruise. You would be wise to take things one step at a time," Hellfire whispered, his voice as cold as space.

"Sir, it was a misunderstanding-" Mason attempted a rebuttal, a wave of nausea hitting his stomach.

"I don't give a frak what it was or how it happened," the CAG said. "Zero five. Tomorrow. Get out of here."

"Aye, sir," Emory and Mason rattled off in unison, making haste for the exit.

* * *

"Really, it could've gone worse," Emory remarked.

"Always the optimist," Mason smiled slightly as they found their way back to the third's bunk room. Pilots were filtering in, sweat-soaked and exhausted. Many collapsed in their bunks, falling asleep with their flight suits still on. The two junior pilots clambered up to their bunks and awkwardly swung themselves into the second-level holes in the bulkheads.

"Seems to be a good motto for today," Emory shrugged in his bunk. " 'Could've been worse.' "

"I suppose so," his friend replied, staring at the ceiling of his bunk - no higher than three feet above his head. Laying down, he had failed to realize just how exhausted he was. Mason replayed the day over in his mind. That morning he had been on Picon, feet dry without a care in the world. Now he was aboard the _Cathedral_ - having earned a poor reputation with his commanding officer in just a few hours.

_Great_ he thought. _Two hours in and I'm already on my way to washout. _

For as long as he could remember, all he had wanted to do was fly Vipers in the colonial fleet. The dream was within his grasp - but appeared so close to slipping away at the same time. His mind battled itself tirelessly. What would he do if he couldn't fly? It was all that Mason knew how to do. He had dedicated the past several years of his life preparing...and yet it seemed it was all for naught.

"We're gonna be fine, Scott," Emory muttered from the bunk next to his. "They'll see how you can fly. You'll prove them wrong."

Mason sighed as he rolled onto his side, placing a bent arm underneath his head, "I wish I had your confidence."


	3. Chapter 3

3.

A persistent _beep-beep-beep_ apparently wasn't enough to roust Mason. This didn't sit well with the rest of the Vigilantes.

_"Shut that frakking thing off before I frakking air-lock your nugget ass!"_ someone roared from across the bunk room, tossing a metal coffee mug in the general direction of the din.

Mason's eyes popped open with the sound of incoming tableware. He jolted upright - forgetting the ceiling to his bunk was only about a meter above him. He struck his head violently ("Frak!") before rolling out of his bunk and landing awkwardly. He blinked a couple times before silencing the alarm on his watch.

_What frakking time..._ he thought. Glancing around the dimly lit bunk room, he spied the clock. Zero Four Twenty Seven. Gods above.

Emory's head poked out from between his privacy curtains, "Whassamatter?"

"Nothing," Mason hissed, holding up his hands to quiet Emory. A coffee machine gurgled in the corner of the bunk room. Mason collected the thrown coffee mug and made his way over to it. Someone had done the courtesy of collecting a bunch of other mugs and placing them beside the machine. Mason poured two steaming mugs of the burnt-smelling liquid, and proceeded to make a fresh pot.

Emory had made his way downward, rubbing his face warily. He took the offered mug from Mason, nodding his thanks. While sleep deprivation was sometimes a part of basic flight training, it had fallen out of favor in recent years due to safety concerns. It was still something that Mason had a hard time getting used to.

The young pilot pulled on his flight suit and boots, taking a draw of coffee. It was thick and dark - Mason could almost taste the absurd amount of caffeine in it. He grimaced as he swallowed it before taking another long draw.

"Shall we?" Emory asked, filling up their mugs and glancing at the clock. "Best to be early."

Mason nodded. The two quietly slipped out the bunk room, closing the door softly. After quickly ascertaining the location of the ready room, the two attempted to walk briskly while still guzzling coffee.

* * *

The two arrived in the ready room shortly thereafter, nodding greeting to the other bleary-eyed nuggets. Mason found a seat about mid-way to the front and plopped down. The thick, overstuffed chair was inviting enough to sleep in. Mason fought the urge.

"I hope we weren't supposed to bring anything besides ourselves," Emory whispered as he took the seat next to Mason.

"They'll probably issue us everything we'll need...I hope," Mason replied.

The door opened, and in strode Hellfire without a word. Mason leaped to his feat, bellowing, "Attention on deck!"

The other nuggets bolted to their feet, the sound of boots slamming together lofted towards the ceiling.

"Sit," was Hellfire's only command. Curiously, he was dressed in a flight suit, not the basic duty blue uniform worn by most of the officers aboard the ship. The nuggets cautiously took a seat.

"A few rules. Help yourself to coffee - you'll need it - but may the gods help the guy who takes the last of it and doesn't make a new pot. You're all here early, that's good. That means you're on time. If you show up on time, you're late. If you show up late, you wash. That simple. I imagine each of you found your way to separate squadrons. Those will be your squadrons, whether you like it or not. The numbers will work out in the end. If you were caught with your pants down on yesterday's condition one," Hellfire cast a sidelong glance at Mason and Emory, "you'd best learn what to do. Ask your squadron mates. They'll be hard on you, perhaps harder than I will be, but they will not hesitate to tell you the information you need to know. Questions?"

There were, of course, none.

"Good. Now. You all have the benefit of having graduated basic flight. That's ok. But they call it basic for a reason. What we will begin to cover today is space combat maneuvering. This is the shit that will keep you alive. If you remember your training, you will survive. Disregard it, and you won't," Hellfire's voice was without its usual icy edge. He was speaking a painful truth. While he wasn't winning awards for friendliest CAG of the year, the nuggets picked up quickly on his honesty. Mason almost instantly trusted his experience.

"There's a log book and a notebook underneath your seats, along with two zero-g pens. The rest of this morning will be classroom, and this afternoon will be practical evolutions. However, I think today we'll get you squared away with the rest of your gear and let you get your first look at your birds," Hellfire continued, glancing down at the podium in front of him to apparently review his own itinerary.

Emory glanced at Mason excitedly as the nuggets dug their books out from beneath their seats, "Did he say 'our birds'? We get our birds today?"

"In case some of you are curious as to what I said," the CAG said without missing a beat, "I did, in fact, say your birds. Your Viper will need to become just as big of a part of you as you are of it. You are, under no uncertain circumstances, to customize it to fit your liking as you see fit under colonial regulations. The Commander has seen to it that every pilot aboard has his or her own aircraft. The more you are in tune with your own bird, the better you will perform in combat. You will get to know it, and it will get to know you. Besides the bunk room, that aircraft will become your home."

Emory knew enough not to say more, however his eyes sparkled with excitement, as did Mason's.

"Alright, let's begin with basic orientation..." Hellfire turned his back to the class, grabbing a marker to begin writing notes on the board behind him.

_"Revile, Revile, time is now zero-five-thirty, Battlestar _Cathedral_ morning crew, report to duty stations in one half hour."_

Mason opened his notebook and began furiously scribbling notes.

* * *

"And that's the basic orientation of the _Cathedral_. I bet some of you wished you had that yesterday," Hellfire snickered to himself. "Take five for coffee and the head."

Mason stood up, his knees stiff. He glanced at the clock and was amazed, "Nine-thirty? Where's the day going?"

"I dunno," Emory replied, stretching his back. "That's a lot of shit to know, though..."

"Yeah," Mason replied, damning himself for being an analytical. He had filled up three pages of notes already.

The two filled up their coffee mugs before returning to their chairs.

"Gods I hope we can get flying soon," Emory said, leaning back in his chair.

"I think it'll be sooner than we all expect," Mason replied, running the itinerary through his mind. Orientation today, introduction to combat maneuvering the rest of the week, practical evaluations to follow, followed by intermediate combat maneuvering, followed by basic Raptor qualifications. The itinerary deviated after that. The nuggets would choose whether or not to become Viper jocks or Raptor jocks. The Viper jocks would head off to advanced combat maneuvering, and the Raptor jocks would head off to Raptor mission-specific and specialty training. All in the course of six eighty-hour weeks.

"Everyone here?" Hellfire returned to the podium with a steaming cup of coffee. "Good. Attention on deck!"

The last statement was shouted with such force it sounded like a rifle shot. Mason leaped to his feet. One of the other nuggets spilled coffee all over his notes.

A pair of boots strode down the aisle to the left of the ready room chairs. Mason's eye caught the figure of Commander Weissbach as he strode by to the front of the room. The nuggets all audibly held their breath.

"As you were," Weissbach said, sliding into place behind the CAG's podium. Hellfire stepped aside into the shadows.

The nuggets seated themselves, all of them noticeably more rigidly than before. The Commander smirked.

"For those of you who don't know me, my name is Commander Weissbach. I've been the CO of the _Cathedral_ for the past four years. The two prior to that, I served as her XO, a year prior, tactical, and a year prior to that as CAG. I started right where you guys are sitting right now. I'm not a hard guy to work for, nuggets. In fact, I only expect one thing."

Mason's attention was rapt. The man commanded the attention of the room with ease, appearing completely comfortable in his element. It fascinated Mason to watch the man work.

"Can anyone tell me what that might be?" Weissbach looked around the room with a genuine curiosity. The nuggets were wisely silent. The Commander nodded slowly, "Captain, if you would please."

"Excellence, sir," Hellfire replied promptly.

"Yes," Wiessbach nodded, the lighting of the room casting shadows on his lined face. "Excellence. It's the only thing that I expect. Excellence in all you do. Whether that's jocking Vipers, reloading ammunition rounds, fixing birds, driving the ship herself, whatever. If we are not excellent at our job functions, we will pay the price. And as we know, the price paid in warfare is a terrible one. However, if we remain excellent, we needn't worry about the price paid. Our enemies will."

The room was silent as the nuggets took in this information. Mason contemplated what the commander said, understanding just how deep his words were, and realizing the voice of experience that was behind them.

_I hope I'm that good someday,_ he thought quietly to himself.

"Thank you, sir, for taking time to join us this morning. Attention on deck!" Hellfire bellowed. The nuggets jumped to their feet again. Weissbach exited unceremoniously.

"Sit," the CAG said quietly. "You all would be wise to take whatever the Commander says to heart. He's been in the fleet longer than some of you have been alive. Gods willing, some of you may be in his position one day. He's the best we have, whether anyone says so or not. Now. Moving on to the Viper Mark II..."

* * *

"Thirty minutes - grab your chow and meet on hanger bay seven. Dismissed," Hellfire shut off the projector screen and turned on the overhead lights.

Mason snapped out of his trance. Emory was still staring intently at his notebook in front of them - flirting with the edge of consciousness. He glanced slowly over at him.

"This is like a semester of basic flight crammed into a morning," Emory said, his voice dreamy.

"You're telling me. I need food," Mason muttered, gathering his things.

The two strode down the winding corridors leading to the mess. They both hid their embarrassment from each other, now knowing where the mess was located thanks to the basic orientation that morning. It was rather easy to find, despite their best efforts the previous evening.

They entered the mess, a cavernous, but utilitarian space with several tables built to seat hundreds of people at once.

A line had formed along one wall of the chow hall, easily one hundred people deep. It moved, however, with surprising speed.

"Nuggets?" asked an enormous man behind the counter as Mason and Emory approached.

"Damn, is it really that obvious?" Emory asked, smiling.

"Of course!" the rotund man beamed. "Petty Officer First Class Ottaviani, at your service, sir."

"Ottaviani?" Mason asked.

"Yes, sir, but 'Otto' suits me just fine. Are you two staying or going today?" Otto asked.

"Eh?"

"Staying here in the hall to eat, or taking it to go?" Otto smiled, patient.

"Oh, probably to go, then," Mason blinked.

"I suspected as much. Nuggets don't have much time to eat," Otto said, walking with them along the chow line. "It's all mostly buffet style here, Lieutenants, but we also package up hot chow to go. I take a lot of pride in being able to feed this mass of humanity. If you need something special due to restrictions or illness, please let me know."

"Wow," Emory said. "This is...actually kind of astounding, Petty Officer."

"Please," he held up a hand as he retrieved two boxes. "The commander allows me a little leeway in my galley. Everyone calls me Otto. And I thank you. It isn't easy to feed close to twenty five hundred souls four times in a twenty-four hour day. But we manage. Remember, Lieutenants, an army moves on its stomach. Unfed people are ineffective. A good balance of protein, carbohydrates, and fiber makes for just as an effective war machine as does your flying."

Mason again was astounded by the deep understanding of the crew. If there was one thing he was beginning to grasp, it was just how important every single aspect of the Battlestar was to its operation. He began to contemplate what would happen if the mess were to fail.

"I see your point, Otto. Thank you," Mason said sincerely, taking the boxed meal from the galley's executive.

"No, thank _you_, sir, for taking time to speak to me," Otto beamed again before retreating to the back of the line, exchanging salutations with several people of all ranks as he walked down.

"Nice fellow," Emory said, in all seriousness.

"Yeah," Mason said, taking a bite of the dish. His pace towards the hanger deck slowed, "_Wow. _Garrett. Try it."

Emory chewed a mouthful, his hazel eyes widening, "I don't know why people are knocking fleet chow. This is good."

Emboldened by the quick lunch, the two arrived on the hanger deck feeling better than they had all day.

"Good to see you all made it," Hellfire smirked. "Not too bad of chow for the fleet, is it?"

"No, sir," replied Emory. "In fact, sir, it was outstanding."

"Otto does a good job. Now. Everyone pay attention. We're going to be spending the rest of the day getting you into your Vipers. Follow me," the CAG growled.

The group of new pilots followed Hellfire down the deck. The muffled sounds of landing skids impacting the deck above them accompanied their footfalls and the usual din of the hanger deck.

"Equipment check out. Your sizing for flight helmets and gloves were forwarded to us. Find your box, retrieve it, and proceed down about a hundred meters. Meet there in five," Hellfire ordered.

"Well I hope they didn't frak up my helmet like they did on Picon," Emory quipped, smiling. The pair found their respective boxes and rapidly extricated their new flight helmets and gloves.

"They look alright, eh?" Mason asked, sliding his custom-sized helmet on his head. It fit, of course, perfectly.

"Excellent," Emory's muffled voice said to his right. "They got it right."

Mason made his way down to the hanger bay that Hellfire had pointed out, followed closely by Emory.

"Alright, Mason, your tail number is Bravo Sierra Golf Four-Five-One-Zero-Five," Hellfire checked his name off of a list. "Go find it and start playing around. Keep the skids on the deck, though, for frak's sake."

"Aye, sir," Mason smiled.

"Emory! Bravo Sierra Golf Four-Five-One-Zero-Six!"

Mason jogged down the line of gleaming new Vipers - polished so highly that the paint looked wet. He craned his neck to see the tail numbers, finally spotting his - BSG 45 - 105.

Emory was close behind. They exchanged a smirk and a nod as they clambered up the ladders on the side of their birds. Mason slipped into the ejection seat, relishing the new smell of the aircraft around him. He had personally never flown a new aircraft - all the birds in basic flight had been hand-me-downs from the fleet.

He paused, not really knowing where to begin. _Basic start-up, idiot_. He smirked to himself, beginning a process he had done hundreds of times before. He adjusted the ejection seat, feeling the pedals underneath his boots. He depressed them down fully, the range of motion perfect. He played the joystick - the movement was smooth and unobstructed, the throttle also operated smoothly, locking in place at full, half, idle, and stop.

_Finally. My own bird. Holy frak._

"Get everything set up the way you want it to be, nuggets. Take this time because you will not get it again," Hellfire strode up and down the line of Vipers, speaking to no one in particular. "Any excuse made up that your bird was bent or whatever will be denounced as absolute bullshit from here on out. It is now your responsibility."

Mason's mind slowly ebbed into a place he was comfortable with. His senses hightened. The nerves in his body began to tingle slightly. Every movement was deliberate, calculated, and performed with the maximum amount of efficiency and speed. His eyes, normally a glowing shade of ocean blue, darkened to a deep shade of navy blue as his brows furrowed. A certain placidity had come over the young pilot.

Hellfire had climbed up on Mason's ladder. The CAG leaned in, watching. Mason's mind had already acknowledged his presence and disregarded it as something not pertinent.

_Dradis, life support, fuel mix, thrusters, throttle, weapons, atmospheric flaps, ejection, auxiliary power, skid magnets. Good to go...commence engine start._

Mason's hands completed the multi-level checklist with ease. He looked to either side of the space superiority fighter, making sure that there were no wandering souls to the rear of the Viper's triangle-stacked three tyllium fueled engines. As he looked to either side, he yelled "Clear!"

A low hum emanated from the fighter as Mason flipped over the fuel injection switch and hit the ignition. The engines started without hesitation, the low hum of fuel injectors giving way to a snake-like hiss as fuel was ignited and forced out of the conical thrusters.

Mason relaxed slightly and glanced to his left, where Hellfire was still leaning on the rail of the Viper, "Sir?"

"What do you think, nugget?" the CAG asked, hiding the fact that he was very impressed with the speed and efficiency of the young pilot well.

"Nothin' like a brand-new bird, sir, I'd like to take it for a spin," Mason replied, his right hand resting comfortably on the joystick in between his legs, and his left on the throttle cyclic. His fingers drummed rhythmically on the throttle.

"Soon enough," Hellfire _almost_ smirked. "Shut 'er down nice and slow, make sure everything's vanilla."

"Aye, sir," Mason sighed. He glanced to his right, seeing Emory's grinning face through his flight helmet.

Emory held up a hand, holding down his middle finger with his thumb, with the three other digits extended. Mason nodded. It was a code between the two to transfer their communication gear to a channel that wasn't used by any Colonial forces. Mason punched the frequency in.

_"Got me, Scott?"_

"Affirm," Mason smiled, quietly pleased that the frequency still worked. He quickly programmed it under his preset channels behind _Cathedral_ Viper Tac, Air Traffic, Ground Control, and Fleet Comm.

_"This is outta control. Our own Vipers. I can't believe it's happening!"_

Mason quietly agreed. However, a small part of his mind where his pessimistic side spoke, "I just hope that we can live long enough to get some good hours logged in these things."

Emory's face turned to him, his back-lit face concerned, _"What the frak are you talking about, Scott? I'm not worried. I scored above-average to excellent on everything in basic flight. And you're a better pilot than me. We're good. We're scary good. We'll be ok."_

"I know," Mason sighed, his face focused on his dradis readout. "I know."

* * *

- Three Weeks Later -

_"Nuggets, Hellfire,"_ the wireless crackled. _"Today marks the beginning of your third week of SCM training. It's time to head outside. Once you have launched, take a wide holding pattern on the perimeter and wait for further instruction. Sound off and acknowledge."_

Mason's heart was beating abnormally fast. Perhaps it was the twice-perked coffee he had drank, or perhaps it was the prospect of the first launch through the tubes. He couldn't decide which. He took a deep breath of squeaky-clean compressed breathing air and attempted to focus.

_"One-zero-one, roger."_

_"One-zero-two, roger."_

The ground crew hooked up the towing trolly to the front skid of Mason's Viper. Mason held his hands up visibly to show the crew that he had relinquished control of the aircraft. He watched as the nose of his craft was directed gently into a launch tube.

_"One-zero-four, roger that."_

"One-zero-five, roger," Mason spoke into the wireless, attempting to sound as cool as possible.

_"One-zero-six, roger,"_ Emory's voice followed.

Mason looked behind him quickly to ensure the ground crew was clear and the blast doors were closing properly. He slowly brought his engines up to idle speed. He looked to his right at his "shooter," recognizing the same lieutenant from the first day on the ship. He offered a small smile, and a thumbs-up. The young officer squinted momentarily before returning the smile and nodding, returning the thumbs-up, followed by a crisp, albeit brief, salute. Mason returned it before gently increasing his Viper's engines to full. There was no mistaking it now. It wasn't the coffee. The Viper literally shook like a caged animal - straining against the arresting gear holding it in place. Mason held his hands up. Control was with the shooter.

The very breath in Mason's chest left him as the shooter launched the Viper. The strain of the Viper attempting to escape the powerful gravitational pull of the _Cathedral_ was punishing against the young pilot's body.

"Oh frak! Oh frak! Oh frak! Oh frak!" was all Mason could gasp as he hung on for dear life. The launch tube, while only being about fifty meters in length, felt like a kilometer-long tunnel of pure terror. Mason couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He had no control.

Suddenly, it was over. The Viper cleared the launch tube and tore into the space around the _Cathedral. _Mason took a deep breath and blinked, almost forgetting where he was.

_Fly, Scott._

Placidity washed over him like a warm summer's breeze on Tauron. His hands came to rest on the joystick and throttle cyclic. His eyes focused momentarily on the dradis readout before snapping upwards. His mind instantly matched the small dots on the screen before him to the aircraft flying idly around him. He fluidly rolled to the left, keeping the power on full.

_"...I can't - ugh!"_

_"that sucked!"_

_"Zero-four, get control of your frakking bird. It's not that bad! Come on, nuggets, form up!"_ barked the voice of Hellfire over Viper tac. _"Oh, come on zero-three, level it out!"_

Mason looked around quickly, leveling out of his roll once he was comfortable with the distance between himself and the _Cathedral_. He paused momentarily, _where's Emory?_

A blinding flash overtook him as a Viper passed startlingly close to his own. He looked up, seeing the grinning face of Emory quite literally meters from his own as his friend passed laterally over him. Mason grinned.

"You're on, Garrett!"

Mason mirrored Emory's movement, the two Vipers rolling tightly in a helix-shaped spiral, following the wide circle around the _Cathedral_. Mason anticipated every movement of Emory, who in turn mirrored the movements of his friend and wingman. It was a state few people reached between one another. No words were exhanged between the two.

_"Zero-Five, Zero-Six, what in the frak are you two doing?!"_ Hellfire's voice roared over the wireless. _"Form up!"_

"Aye, sir," Mason replied, smirking.

_"Roger that, sir,"_ Emory replied. The two leveled out, the tips of their delta-shaped wings barely meters from each other.

Hellfire's Viper - pockmarked with carbon scoring - floated gently in from above. The CAG's face turned to the two of them, looking stern.

_"This isn't a Picon air show, nuggets. Save the circus stunts for when you're feet dry and trying to pick up tail at the bar."_

The rest of the nugget class formed up behind Mason and Emory - with Hellfire still slightly out in front.

_"Since these two sweethearts were so anxious to parade around here today, how's about they go first in today's evolution?"_

"Frak," Mason breathed, with a sidelong glance at Emory. Emory returned the look, shrugging and smirking.

_"Remember what we covered in class, nuggets. This is an evolution of basic combat meanuvering. Your objective will be, between you and your wingman, obtain a missile lock on me within three minutes of my go. Adhere to the basics. Mason, Emory, are you two ready?"_

"Yes, sir," Mason replied.

_"Yes, sir,"_ Emory's voice crackled.

_"Good. Go."_

Hellfire performed a snap-roll faster than Mason could blink. In a nanosecond, the CAG had disappeared.

_"Mason, I lost him!" _

"So did I!" he replied, looking around wildly. The dradis was blank. "Keep talking to me, Garrett!"

Mason rolled slowly, his eyes outward toward the blackness of space, searching vainly for the figure of Hellfire's Viper.

_"Scott, I got him! Tally one on our ten high! I'm in!"_

Mason's eyes snapped up and to the right, catching sight of the triangle-stacked engines burning at full throttle. Hellfire had heard Emory, of course, and quickly altered course. Mason's eyes, however, remained locked on him.

"I got him! Tallyho, I'm in! I got your wing!"

Emory surged ahead, pushing his Viper. Mason fell in close on his wing, activating his weapons system.

Hellfire had nosed his Viper down, or at least as much as "down" could be defined in space. Mason was somewhat used to the different pulls created by a "yankin' and bankin'" spacecraft, as they called it. Different laws of gravity applied, and g-forces were felt differently in comparison to atmospheric flight. Most of the "gravitational" pulls that the young pilot felt were simply caused by his Viper moving too quickly for his body to react. For instance, his body was slammed hard back into his ejection seat as Hellfire made a quick dive underneath the _Cathedral_, leveling out with his tail fin barely meters from the Battlestar's hull.

_"You still with me, Scott?!"_ Emory's voice was strained.

"I got you!" Mason replied. It was a redundant question. Emory knew Mason was flying close to him - he would have been doing the exact same for him.

_"You might have to go for it, Mason, I can't quite get the right angle!"_

The trio of fighters emerged quickly from the other side of the _Cathedral_ - climbing quickly and backtracking in a wide arc.

Mason gritted his teeth and focused in. The CAG was, naturally, very skilled. He glanced at the clock - a minute had passed.

_"Come on..."_

Mason pushed his fighter forward, flying parallel now with Emory. His friend glanced over briefly to see Mason giving the hand singnal. They switched to the frequency.

_"Scott, this guy is too good."_

"Stay right on him, ok?" Mason said, dropping back in the pursuit. "Don't give him any impression that I'm not right with you. I'm gonna try something."

_"Try what?"_

"I don't quite know," he replied, laughing. "I'm making it up as I go along, ok?"

_"You're crazy."_

Mason smirked and banked his Viper hard and to the left, just as Hellfire and the close-following Emory banked right.

Mason's eyes stayed locked on Hellfire as he made a wide arc - hoping that the CAG would double back. Emory was all over the CAG - still searching vainly for the missile lock. Mason saw that Hellfire was employing the classic "guns defense" - a minor juke every so often just to shake the possibility of missile lock - and the ability to eyeball a hard track to line up a burst from the guns.

_"One minute left, nuggets! Please tell me there's some truth behind the hype and at least ONE of you can get me!"_ Hellfire's voice taunted over Viper tac. Mason looked on as the Captain slowly shook off Emory, and rolled expertly into a position behind Emory. _"I guess not! We're having nuggets for dinner tonight!"_

"Frak this," Mason whispered, cutting his tracking arc tightly. He switched to his and Emory's private frequency, "bring him hard left, Garrett, ok? And when you do, be prepared to break to the right."

_"You wanna do the one thing?"_ Emory asked.

"Yeah, the one thing," Mason agreed, lining himself up.

_"So I break to my right or your right?"_

"Break _right_, Garrett, we've done this!" Mason replied.

_"Ok, got it."_

Mason eyeballed the narrow silhouette of Emory's Viper dead-center in his windscreen. He also saw Hellfire swooping in behind, angling in for a lock.

_"Ok, ten seconds..."_

"Affirm," Mason whispered, silently beginning the countdown.

The two Vipers continued on a head-to-head collision course at a blinding speed - causing the rest of the nugget class who had been looking on much distress.

_"Three, two, one..."_

Time slowed for Emory and Mason, who simultaneously rolled their Vipers and pushed down on the joysticks slightly. Had they been a meter closer - their cockpit windscreens would have touched. The tail fins on their shining new Vipers passed by each other parallel, with even less room to spare. The maneuver caused the close-following Hellfire to rise slightly on his angle of pursuit. It was all Mason needed.

The CAG's Viper rose up right into the target receptacle of Mason's Viper. The dadis did the rest. A shrill tone in Mason's cockpit confirmed the hard-lock. A harsh buzz in Hellfire's confirmed his death.

"Got him," Mason said over Viper Tac.

_"No frakking way!"_

_"Waaaaa-hoooo! You got him you frakkin' sonofabitch!"_ Emory's voice was jubilant.

_"Button it, nuggets,"_ Hellfire snarled. _"Zero-Three, Zero-Seven. Your turn. Mason and Emory - take a holding pattern until we're done."_

"Zero-Five, roger," Mason replied, his pride showing through plainly in his voice.

_"Zero-six, roger roger!"_ Emory's smile being heard through the wireless. The two formed up in their tight pattern, Emory now off of Mason's wing. Mason looked to his right and smiled.

_"That was beyond awesome, Scott!" _Emory said over their frequency.

"You were excellent," Mason nodded. "Perfect timing on your part, and the draw-down, too. Brilliant flying."

The pair decreased their speed steadily, folding into the holding pattern. Mason's eyes was caught by a trio of Vipers on the outside of the holding pattern. They altered course, setting themselves up on an interception angle.

_"What's the CAP doing?"_ Emory asked. He was correct in assuming that the trio of Vipers belonged to the ships' Combat Air Patrol. They were three of nine Vipers from a squadron assigned to patrol the airspace around the _Cathedral_ and intercept any immanent threats with prejudice.

"I dunno," Mason mused, watching as they slowly came alongside each other. Mason looked at the noses of the aircraft, seeing the emblazoned image of the 3rd on them. He then looked in the cockpit - recognizing the face of Roundhouse.

_"Nice job, guys!"_ Roundhouse gave him a thumbs-up. _"It's not every day the CAG gets embarrassed liked that!"_

"_Thanks!"_ Emory gave a thumbs-up in return. Mason was cautious in smiling, hardly believing that he and Emory were actually being _complimented_ by Roundhouse. It was a first.

_"Yeah, actually not bad at all. I mean, I could've done it a hell of a lot better,"_ Wire's voice crackled over the wireless. _"But, seriously, not bad."_

_"Whatever, Wire, you couldn't do that!"_

_"Cut the frakkin' chatter, Third!"_ Hellfire was irate. _"I'm trying to run a class here!"_

_"Roundhouse, _Cathedral_ - dradis contact! Bearing one-nine-nine degrees, carem three-eight-three, closing fast! Cylon Raiders!"_

Mason's blood froze in his veins as he wheeled around, seeing the pinpricks of light exploding to the aft of the _Cathedral_. Raiders were seemingly coming out of nowhere.

_"Nuggets, Hellfire, get your asses back on board, R.F.N.!" _

_"_Cathedral_, Roundhouse, roger, tally several Raiders! Moving to intercept!"_

Mason didn't need to be told twice. The nuggets' Vipers hadn't been loaded with any ammunition for the training mission. He horsed the nose of his Viper around quickly, making a hard run for the _Cathedral_.

_"Zero-Three, get going!"_

Mason's head snapped to the left, seeing a lone Viper floating aimlessly. Zero-Three. Baker.

_"Zero-Three, CAG, get going!"_ Hellfire barked over the wireless.

_"Uh, I - I - there's so many of them!" _Baker's voice shook.

_"Fly your ass home, Baker! Right now!" _Hellfire rolled a hard six - snapping the nose of his Viper around in about half a second and reversing course, flying hard in the direction of the scared-shitless Baker.

"He's all alone," Mason whispered.

_"Don't you even think about it, Scott,"_ Emory said. _"No way. No frakkin' way. We're supposed to land."_

Mason's eyes quickly scanned the scene of the battle. The CAP had set itself up on the starboard side of the _Cathedral_, placing themselves between the incoming onslaught and the ship. Baker had decided to lose his mind on the far port side of the ship - perhaps a few dozen kilometers away. Hellfire was making a hard run for the nugget. The CAP was well engaged keeping the incoming raiders entertained on the starboard side of the ship. However, there were simply too many Raiders. Many of them blew straight through the defensive net being set up between the CAP and the flack guns of the _Cathedral_ - making strafing runs on the ship herself and moving on.

"Garrett," Mason began, his eyes back on Hellfire.

_"No. No, Scott,"_ Emory answered, his head shaking back and forth. _"I think we're in enough trouble for one day."_

Mason glanced to his right again, his expression set, eyebrows raised.

_"Shit,"_ Emory sighed.

For the first time in awhile, Junior Lieutenant Scott Mason defied direct orders. He yanked his joystick hard to the left, and stomped on his left pedal with enough force to almost put his foot through the cockpit floor. His Viper responded instantly, snapping hard in the direction of the floundering Baker.

Emory was quick to follow. The young men laid their throttle cyclics down all the way - accelerating with haste.

_"Baker, turn around towards me, ok? I'll fly your wing home,"_ Hellfire was taking a different approach now, attempting to get through to the paralyzed nugget.

Mason wished his Viper to go faster as he saw a loose formation of Raiders form up on the port side of the _Cathedral_. Their glowing red eyes swept back and forth before locking on the target of most logical opportunity - the target being Baker.

"Oh frak," Mason said.

_"And just what are we gonna do about them, Scott? We don't even have guns right now!"_ Emory inquired, still flying with speed towards the fray despite his misgivings.

"I - I dunno yet, ok? We'll figure it out," Mason replied in all honesty, his head on a swivel.

_"Mason?! Emory?! What in the frak are you doing?!"_ Hellfire screamed over Viper tac.

"We'll cover you, sir! Get Baker and go!" Mason said back, now beginning to question his decision as the flight of Raiders moved in.

_"I told you once already! Get out of here!" _the CAG was beside himself.

"We got it, sir!" Mason yelled, keeping his throttle laid forward. He eyeballed the distance. He would arrive at Hellfire and Baker moments before the Cylons would. He hastily made a game plan.

"Garrett! You still got your flares?" Mason asked.

_"Yeah, why?"_ Emory replied.

"Ok, I think this might work," Mason was breathing quickly now, fear creeping into him. "We dump the flares by Baker and the CAG - then show them our engines. Let them acquire us, and then haul ass away, ok?"

_"Great, Scott. That's great," _Emory sighed.

"It'll work," Mason said.

_"Your asses are mine if you survive the day, gentlemen," _Hellfire growled. _"Your days in the fleet are over!"_

"Roger that, sir," Mason replied, not without a hint of sarcasm. He took a deep breath as he pulled up near the floundering Baker. "Ok, Garrett...now!"

Emory and Mason dumped their diversion flares right on the nose of Baker's Viper. They both cut their throttles and spun about, showing their engines to the faces of the Raiders.

A withering burst of gunfire sailed over their cockpits.

_"I think they got us zeroed, Scott!" _Emory said in a strained voice.

"Let's take 'em for a ride, then," Mason said, adrenaline flooding his veins. He snapped around in a hard six, facing the incoming Raiders - numbering now in the dozens.

_"Lead the way, then, sir,"_ Emory said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Apparently he had long accepted that the day was lost.

Mason swallowed hard, laying his throttle down, "You with me, Garrett?"

_"Always," _Emory replied. Mason looked over just long enough to see Emory offer him just a confident smirk.

"Ok. Y-split at a hundred meters," Mason said calmly.

_"Roger."_

The pair surged forward towards the charging Raiders. Mason carefully eyeballed the distance between himself and the Raiders. It closed with breathtaking speed.

_"aaaaand...break!" _Emory cried.

Mason yanked hard to the left. Emory yanked hard right. The Raiders split the difference with machine precision. Around eight Raiders followed each Viper as they split up.

Wheeling around, Mason sighed in relief as he saw the Raiders take the bait. The pressure was off Hellfire and Baker. For now.

_"Alright, Scott, they took it. Do we just fly to our deaths now?"_ Emory asked, his voice shaking.

"I don't know!" Mason said, his head snapping left, then right, trying to keep his eyes on the Raiders on his tail. He kept drawing blanks. _Eight Raiders on your tail...what now?_

_"Mason, Emory, just keep flying! Keep going on evasive measures! Don't let them get locked on to you! Just move!"_ Hellfire's voice sang over the tac. _"I'm getting Baker out of here, try to give us some time!"_

_"Ok, ok..."_ Emory was hyperventilating.

Mason could literally hear his pulse banging away in his head. However, the familiar sense of placidity began to slowly wash over him. His breathing slowed, time elongated, and his mind began to work with amazing clarity.

"Garrett, we're gonna have to bring them up through the defensive net. After that, we'll do the thing again, ok?"

_"You seriously didn't just say that."_

"Yes. They'll lose their targeting in the net. They'll have to follow by direct sight or infrared. They won't have time to recalculate for collision," Mason replied, making his way for the defensive net around the _Cathedral_.

_"Gods, I hope you're right about this."_

"Me too," Mason muttered, pointing the nose of his Viper towards the violently exploding flack shells. The Raiders followed, guns blazing.

The two Vipers flew headlong into the mass of flack - the red-hot shrapnel bouncing off the skin of their respective fighters. The Raiders followed - their formation instantly fracturing and loosening up.

_"Scott! I'm almost through!"_ Emory yelled, his Viper rocking from side to side.

"So am I! Get ready!" Mason roared back, holding onto the joystick with a death grip.

Mason and Emory punched through the cloud of shrapnel simultaneously. Mason looked to his right, Emory to his left. Spotting each other, they nosed their Vipers around on a direct collision course.

_"I think they're going for it!"_ Emory said over the wireless, looking quickly behind him.

"Ok! Left this time!" Mason said.

_"Your left or my left?!" _

Mason's eyes grew wide as he saw Emory speeding towards him.

"Left!" Mason roared.

_"Which left?!"_

"LEFT!"

Mason rolled hard to the left and pulled up. Emory rolled right and dove. If the previous maneuver was close, this one was uncomfortable. The cockpit glass of each fighter scraped against the other. The tail fins rubbed the outside edge of the other fighter's engines with a terrifying shriek. Mason felt the heat on his face from Emory's engines, and Emory felt the heat from Mason's.

Mason's assumption was correct. The Raiders hadn't yet compensated from the interference. The resulting explosion of several Raiders colliding at full throttle was nothing short of amazing.

_"Holy shit!" _

_"They're running! They're running!"_

_"Go! Get after them!" _came the voice of Wire. _"Mason! Emory! Get outta here and get back on board! We'll take it!"_

Mason's hands shook violently as he righted his Viper, "Roger, take it back to the nest. Garrett! Are you ok?"

_"I'm fine - are you ok?"_ Emory replied, sounding haggard.

"I'm fine," Mason sighed, turning in a wide arc towards the aft of the _Cathedral._ He saw several small fires spewing from the hull of the massive ship. Still, she was an imposing sight, with her big hundred-millimeter guns blazing away, driving hard into the fray.

_"Viper One-Zero-Five, _Cathedral_ air, just get back on board, pattern is clear. Same to you, One-Zero-Six. Switch to niner for landing."_

"Zero-Five, roger," Mason sighed, feeling the adrenaline beginning to ebb.

_"Zero-Six, roger."_

_"Viper One-Zero-Five, you're at three klicks, checkers red, combat landings, call the ball!"_

"Zero-Five, roger ball," Mason replied, lining up the nose of his fighter with the illuminated landing runway. He cycled the landing skids and reduced his speed. His shoulders sagged as his Viper passed into the landing bay - flying over the giant Battlestar _Cathedral_ BSG 45 crest at the foot of the runway. He eased down on the throttle and engaged the magnets on the skids, allowing the force of the magnets to bring the fighter down onto the deck with a slight jolt.

Emory mirrored Mason just to the right and slightly aft. After landing, they taxied to an elevator, which brought them down into the hanger bay. Mason suddenly felt exhausted. He realized he was dripping with sweat, despite the environmental controls of his flight suit.

The elevator lurched to a stop. Tow vehicles and knuckle-draggers instantly swarmed the two fighters. Mason slid the cockpit glass forward and disconnected his helmet from the life support back, taking a deep breath of the acrid air of the hanger bay.

The tow vehicles came to a stop in the assigned parking spaces. A ground crew member handed Mason a post-flight checklist; he scribbled something similar to his signature on the bottom.

Roundhouse strode up to the two Vipers, looking up at Mason and Emory. The two exited slowly from the fighters - trying to find their balance on the ladders. Mason failed, missing a ladder rung and falling the rest of the way to the hanger deck.

The senior pilot almost laughed, which Mason thought uncharacteristic. He looked up at him from the floor, "Hellfire. Baker. Are they ok?"

Roundhouse's face darkened. He shook his head, "they didn't make it back."

Emory's mouth opened up in shock. Mason felt instantly sick.

"What about the other nuggets? Bailey? Simms? Saylors?" Emory asked, pale.

The Lieutenant shook his head, looking at the hanger deck.

Mason grabbed the side of the ladder, and threw up.


	4. Chapter 4

A quick note, reader:  
As I continue to do research into the massive universe that is BSG, I'm now coming to realize that I may have taken a little bit too much liberty with the time span between the First Cylon War and the events in _Gods and Arias_. For that, I humbly apologize. But, in the spirit of fiction and what it is, I beg your forgiveness and hope you can overlook it as we continue on with the story of Scott Mason. I hope you all have had a good time reading so far, and I thank you for taking your time to do so.  
With my most humble regards, I now submit, for your approval, the fourth chapter in what promises to be a long examination of the life of Mason.

4.

The ready room had always been a place of boisterous activity. In between the briefings, trainings, and general massing of pilots drinking coffee or whatever else they found, it rarely settled, even on the night watch. In the few weeks that the nuggets had spent aboard the _Cathedral_, they had never known the room to be silent.

Until after the second engagement.

Mason sat silently in his briefing chair, with Emory beside him. A half-finished bottle of whiskey sat between them.

Wire and Roundhouse had shuffled in, each of them taking a long pull from the bottle without words. Members of the First, Second, Fourth, Sixth, and Eighth squadrons started to file in. Word had traveled fast. The CAG had bought it. Along with six nuggets. Seven pilots dead.

Looking around the room, Mason was appalled to see that the entire air group could almost fill the seats. Usually there wasn't even standing room when all the pilots gathered.

"Well, I guess I'll just frakking say it," Wire said after a pull from the bottle. It had made its way around the room and was emptied in as much time. "Hellfire was the best. And they got him. We're not invincible."

The rest of the pilots remained silent.

"You two," Wire turned his attention to the two newest pilots. "The rest of your class is dead. That sucks. We'll remember them. But you are alive right now because of your flying. That was some of the best flying I've ever seen. Anywhere. Keep that edge, and you will survive. Lose it, and you die. So. We mourn our fallen. Hellewell, Abrams, Bailey, Bakker, Larson, Osbourne, and Simms."

"So say we all," the rest of the pilots murmured.

"And Mason. Emory. Welcome to the Third. From now on, you two are Vigilantes. Until the day you die. Stand up," Wire said quietly.

Mason and Emory stood, confused looks on their faces.

"Left face," the senior pilot ordered quietly. The two turned to their left, a little informally.

Roundhouse strode up to Wire, two boxes in his hands. Wire took the first, pulling out two brand-new Battlestar _Cathedral_ patches - colored simply but elegantly with a white-on-black Colonial Crest, featuring the bold name of the ship encircling it, along with the Group's designation, "BSG 45."

Wire pressed these patches firmly on the right shoulders of the pilots, nodding grimly as the industrial velcro adhered the patches in place.

"About face," Roundhouse spoke next. Mason and Emory turned around, their left shoulders now facing the front of the room. Roundhouse pulled out two new "Vigilantes" patches, handing one to Wire. These were placed on the shoulders of Mason and Emory, just below the "Viper" patch. Once placed, Roundhouse and Wire threw a moderately-powered punch at each, before swapping places and punching the patches again. The rest of the members of the Third lined up without words, each of them punching the patches.

"Attention on deck!" someone shouted from the back.

Weissbach strode in silently. He stopped in front of the new pilots. Wordlessly, he threw a soft punch to each shoulder of the new pilots.

_The commander was a Vigilante_, Mason made the connection.

"Everyone sit," Weissbach said quietly, striding to the podium. He waited for people to find a seat or someplace to lean on. He paused for a moment, searching for words.

"We lost our past, our present, and our future today. Hellfire did a lot for this air group, even though he was serving as the interim CAG. As of today, he is no longer the interim," the commander began. He turned to the staffing board to his right, grabbing Hellfire's name tag from the top of the Eighth Squadron's roster and placing it gently into the slot on the very top - labeled: Commander - Air Group.

Everyone was silent for a moment as Weissbach sized up the board. He glanced over his shoulder again, looking at Mason and Emory. He grabbed their respective name tags from the "Nuggets" column, and placed them at the bottom of the third column - the Vigilantes.

"Losing the rest of the nuggets will hurt us. They were promising young men and women. I was counting on their service. We may not get their replacements for some time. You all know that," he continued. "So we're just going to have to pull together and keep the birds flying with what we have. I don't know of any other option. Wire?"

"Yes, sir," Wire replied, his voice even.

"As of now you are an acting Major, and the new interim CAG," the commander said, with finality. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir," Wire said, looking almost shaken at the prospect. However, he put it away, standing up stiffly.

Mason marveled at what just happened, privately of course. Wire wasn't much more than a few years older than he was - and had just been placed in command of the entire air group aboard the _Cathedral_. An acting Major. Holy frak.

"This war sucks," Weissbach leaned against the podium, sighing and rubbing his face. He was speaking plainly, now. "I'm over it. I'm over losing people under my command. I'm over losing this war. I'm sick of the devastation on our home worlds, I'm sick of waking up to condition one alerts twice a night, every night. Something needs to change."

Several heads nodded around the room, exhausted faces lined prematurely despite youth wore expressions of hopelessness.

"And it will. Starting right here, right now," Weissbach said, an edge forming in his voice. "There is too much talent in this room to simply mourn our dead and lick our wounds. No. From this very second, we avenge those who have fallen today and all the days prior with prejudice. Without mercy. As no mercy has been shown to us, we shall show none. From now on, every engagement will be a victory. Every battle will be a rout of our enemies. And they will know us by the trail of busted-ass toaster parts floating across the galaxy. From now on, ladies and gentlemen, we will not stand idly by to find out how this war will end. We will dictate the ending from this moment. And it begins right here, right now, in this ready room."

"So say we all," Wire said after a short pause.

"So say we all!" Roundhouse roared, standing.

"So say we all!" cried the rest of the air wing, standing in unison.

"Get back in you birds and get flying," Weissbach said, nodding grimly. He exited the room, several pilots clapping him on the back, whispering words of solidarity.

* * *

The services for Hellfire and the rest of the nugget class were short, but reverent nonetheless. There was a persistent, restless feeling among the gathered crew. As if the next attack was just around the corner. The fates, however, spared the _Cathedral_ of any Cylon harassment for the duration.

Mason and Emory returned slowly to the Vigilantes' quarters, loosening the collars on their dress grays as they walked along. Shining new Lieutenant insignia glinted on the loosened coats. Their heads swam with the haste of it all. It had been just a few days since the devastating attack. Sounds of repair were still being heard through the bulkheads at all hours of the day and night. And yet, here they strode down the corridors of the _Cathedral_ - now fully vetted pilots belonging to the 3rd Squadron, 45th Battlestar Group.

The promotions, by all technical definitions, had been right on time. Since Mason and Emory had graduated from the War College, they had been commissioned as Junior Lieutenants. That was almost a year and a half ago.

_Where the frak does the time go?_

Mason almost smiled remembering the graduation ceremonies at Fleet Headquarters on Picon. He had done the best he could in the duration of basic flight, and indeed his short duration on the _Cathedral_, to subdue the fact that he had graduated class Valedictorian, _Summa cum Laude_. He _did_ smirk, however, remembering the faces of several disappointed senior officers when he informed them of his intention to go to basic flight, instead of tactical command school.

Putting away his dress grays in his small locker, he donned his flight suit. The Vigilantes had drawn CAP from 2100-0000 hours. A short nap, then back to work.

Wire shuffled into the bunk room, rubbing his face tiredly.

"Someone forgot to tell me that being CAG sucks," he sighed to no one in particular.

"How's that, sir?" Emory asked, glancing up from a book.

"Planning the CAP, keeping personnel rosters updated, flight performance reviews, briefings, briefings, and more frakking briefings," the interim CAG sighed, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against his locker. "I dunno how Hellfire did it."

"Lots of coffee," Roundhouse said, a hint of a smirk forming. He leaned back in his chair, blowing cigar smoke idly to the ceiling. Roundhouse had unofficially taken on the role of Squadron Leader for the Vigilates, and the role of an acting Captain, since Wire's bump to CAG. He seemed to be relishing the role, at least for the few days he had been in it.

"That's no lie," Wire muttered, pulling on his flight suit and collapsing into his bunk. Mason smiled sadly at the fact that everyone lounged about in their flight suits anymore. Most pilots chose to wear them and be prepared for the inevitable, rather than be caught off guard.

"News is on," Roundhouse mentioned quietly, looking at his watch.

Mason reached over and flipped on the wireless.

_"This is Colonial Talk Wireless Radio, coming to you tonight from an undisclosed location on the outskirts of yet another undisclosed location..."_

"At least they have a sense of humor," Emory remarked, placing a briefing packet into his book to mark his place.

"Someone has to," Mason replied, lying back in his bunk.

_"...reports tonight of another Cylon attack against the colony of Aerlon this time. Civilian casualties are reported to be sparing, and eyewitness accounts state the Colonial Battlestar _Triton_ responded quickly to the attack, no word yet of military casualties or confirmed enemy kills, we're joined now by Deputy Defense Secretary..."_

Mason closed his eyes, sighing. He wished he could fall asleep - just for a few hours.

_"...in other news, a guerrilla-style Cylon attack was reported against the Battlestar _Cathedral_ four days ago - seven Colonial pilots were reported killed in the engagement, and numerous Cylon Raiders, several dozen, in fact, were reported destroyed..."_

"Nice of them," Emory whispered, remarking on the inflated numbers of the report. It was propaganda, pure and simple. Meant to give hope to the surviving humans.

_"...command reporting today in a press release that several options for offensive operations are being weighed against intelligence information, and, as always, tactical strikes were being weighed against defensive priorities around the colonies. The Admiralty of the Colonial Fleet has made clear, however, that the defense of the Colonies remains the top priority..."_

Mason slowly drifted to the edge of consciousness, _offensive tactical strikes? That would have to be this ship...we're not engaged around a colony to protect it. It makes sense to keep those Battlestars there, and send the ones they can...but how the frak do we even know where we're going? How are we even capable of intelligence against the Cylons? This doesn't make sense..._

"Wake up, Scott," Emory punched his shoulder.

"Eh?" Mason blinked and furrowed his brow, squinting furiously at his watch. 2027.

"Come on, CAP in half," his wingman said, downing coffee with gusto.

* * *

"Alright, Vigilantes, you know the procedure. Standard CAP - Roundhouse, I'll leave it up to you how you want to split everyone up. Monitor your sectors and report anything you may stumble across. Weapons are free - you are free and encouraged to engage anything you view as a threat. Everyone, I also want you to be prepared for the possibility that we'll be jumping into some pretty salty space to do some pretty salty stuff here in the next few days. That's all I know for now, questions?" Wire said tiredly from the podium.

"Sir, what do you mean salty stuff? And which section of space tastes particularly salty? It all tastes the same to me, so far," someone cracked from the back. Quiet snickering was heard around the room.

"I'm tellin' you, that's all I know for now," even Wire had to smirk. "I'll get it to you guys as soon as I know. Good hunting, guys. Dismissed."

"Offense, then," Emory remarked as the Third gathered their effects and strode out of the ready room. Each pilot made a point to bang his fist on the Vigilantes crest that hung proudly in its place on the wall as the filed by. There may or may not have been weight to the superstition, but as was said in the ready room: _much better to be lucky than dead._

"Apparently so," Mason agreed.

"Well, I'm not saying I'm happy about a dangerous assignment...but it'd be nice to bring the boots to them for a change," Emory said, placing a pinch of milled fumella leaves under his lip.

Mason nodded. It didn't please him, either, to be ordered on the offensive. But it was something different. Something right. He hearkened back to what Weissbach had said. It was time to dictate the tide of this war.

* * *

The sensation of launching wasn't necessarily easier to bear, however Mason had at least grown accustomed to it, now being the thirty-eighth time he had launched out of the tubes.

_"And welcome to another thrilling three-hour Combat Air Patrol, brought to you this evening courtesy of the Third Viper Squadron on the _Cathedral_, but still number one in your hearts, the Vigilantes,"_ cracked Roundhouse over the wireless.

_"Yeah, this one looks like it's gonna be a good one," _someone else, probably Torro, said.

_"Ok, Torro, you're with me, Mason, Emory - gods, we need to get you guys callsigns - you two together, Fishhook and Crack, and then Demon, Airgun, and Fido, you three together," _Roundhouse sighed over the wireless. It was more of a formality than anything. The pairings were always the same for the short-handed squadron. The tight-knit family had formed their own friendships - and Roundhouse didn't see a need to split up effective teamwork.

Mason smirked a little, giving a double-click over the Viper tac to let Roundhouse know he had heard the message. Eight sets of double-clicks, and Roundhouse was able to verify that the entire squadron had received the message in as much time as it would have taken one man to acknowledge. Efficiency. It's what they did.

Emory brought his Viper in gently next to Mason's. Mason glanced over and gave the hand signal. Emory nodded.

_"Your dradis crystal-clear, too?"_

"Yep," Mason nodded. "Nothing on the scope."

_"What's that one bar in Hypatia that we always go to? I can't remember for the life of me."_

Mason smiled, thinking of his hometown on Tauron - the capital city of Hypatia. And of course, his favorite bar, "The Charging Bull, of course. How can you forget?"

_"Ahh," _Emory smiled, closing his eyes momentarily, letting the memories wash over him. _"Of course."_

Mason let his mind wander slightly. He could afford to do so. He and Emory had worked out a system - Emory always flew to his right, and parallel to him, not slightly aft, as wingmen tended to do. They flew parallel, and no one really cared. It worked, as Emory was left-handed, Mason right-handed. The formation in which they flew allowed them to react to each others movements faster than the average pair of pilots. So, Mason's mind wandered.

He remembered the air of The Charging Bull - sweet with the smell of aromatic fumella leaves. Thick glassware being placed on heavy tables. Rolling conversation and deep, booming laughter echoing from all around.

"We'll have to make a point to get back there," Mason said, a touch of homesickness in his voice.

_"I wonder if Nina is still around_," Emory thought aloud.

"Are you still hung up on her?" he replied, astounded. It was most unlike Emory to be hung up on a certain female for more than, admittedly, one night.

_"Well, no!" _said his friend, quick to rescind his statement. _"I mean, if she's still around, it'd be great to see her again, but no. Absolutely not. I'm not hung up on her. Don't be absurd."_

Mason looked to his right, seeing Emory's best poker face looking back at him from meters away. He gave a huge smirk in return, "Right. Absurd. I must be crazy."

_"Bonkers,"_ Emory nodded. Silence stretched between them. Mason didn't break his gaze, the smirk still splashed across his face.

Emory did a double-take after glancing at his dradis, _"What?!"_

"Nothing," Mason replied, breaking his gaze and adjusting his dradis unnecessarily.

Emory seemed uncomfortable, _"I mean, have you heard anything, perchance, from Tauron?"_

"Ha!" Mason cried, delighted. "Ha! I knew it!"

_"You assume too much," _Emory shook his head, touching off his starboard thrusters slightly to tighten their formation. _"I mean, be realistic, Scott. Are the chances of us getting back to The Bull really that good?"_

Mason let his confidence show, "If it means getting back just to see you fall all over yourself for a girl, then the chances are that good."

_"I'm not falling all over anything, I'll have you know - and when's the last time you even talked to a girl? That thing on Picon?"_ Emory jabbed.

"Please," Mason rolled his eyes for effect. "You know me."

_"I do. And I'm right,"_ Emory laughed.

"Whatever," Mason brushed the comment off, smiling. But something inside him did question why Emory was right about this. It's not that he didn't enjoy the company - he did - it was...something he couldn't rightfully explain.

_"You two sweethearts see anything notable over in your sector?" _Roundhouse broke in on Viper tac.

"Negative, sir," Mason replied. "Wide open and clear."

_"Roger...try to stay awake, eh?"_

"Roger that, sir," Mason smirked. He guided his craft in a gentle arc on the outer perimeter of the patrol zone. Emory subconciously did the same thing, keeping their two-fighter formation impeccable.

Mason began to roll thoughts over in his mind as he and Emory cruised through empty space. Over the past five or six years, he hadn't stopped to think much of anything else besides a career in the Fleet. Although he was still relatively new to his duty station, he gave some thought as to what was next.

_I can keep flying so long as I can pass the physical...that's at least another twenty, thirty years, right?_

After that, though, then what?

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. The cynic in him gave some weight to Emory's observation. It was entirely possible that this first cruise would be his last. A hell of a lot accomplished for someone who apparently had so much potential, should he buy it.

_"Did you ever see that blonde from Picon again? I don't know if you told me,"_ Emory broke the silence.

Mason shook his head, smiling slightly, "No, of course not. We got shipped out the next day. She wasn't my type anyway."

_"Not your type?"_ Emory's face showed outrage. _"All you did was make out behind the Bent Bird and have a drunken grope-fest, how in the hell can you tell if she's your type or not based on that?!"_

"Garrett, I just," Mason sighed. Gods damn these long flights with nothing to do. "I just know, ok?"

_"I object. You know not,"_ Emory quipped in a mock-mystical voice.

"What are you my personal oracle now?"

_"Yes, my son."_

"You really need to go get your head soaked in something, y'know?" Mason cackled.

_"You gotta get in the game, more, man. I'm telling you,"_ Emory shrugged emphatically with his hands for effect. _"Seriously. I think it'd be good for you."_

"I don't think there's any way to describe how much I am _not_ going to take relationship advice coming from _you_," he laughed in spite of himself. "It's like asking a fleet marine how to roll a hard six in atmosphere."

_"You speak as though I'm a man of questionable morals, Scott. I'm hurt,"_ his friend feigned despair.

"You said it, not me," Mason raised an eyebrow. Emory smirked, having been caught in his own words. Both men laughed.

Their wide, slow circle around the _Cathedral_ continued on. The last of the reconaissance Raptors sent out for the day jumped into the airspace without any additional fanfare or trouble, and promptly landed. Mason envied those pilots, knowing they would soon be unconcious in their bunks.

_"Well the last of our birds are back in the nest, guys," _Roundhouse announced around a quarter to eleven. _"We're halfway done. Stay cool."_

Mason double-clicked along with the rest of the squadron, and continued the circle.

* * *

The thirty-seventh consecutive successful combat landing completed, Mason stepped off the ladder, nodding to his Viper's crew chief, a First-Class Petty Officer by the name of Neilson.

"She flew perfect," Mason said to the non-com. They were of relatively similar age, however had taken vastly different directions in the Fleet. Neilson could put together a Viper almost blindfolded, and yet had no idea how to operate it beyond the fundamentals. Mason had a basic understanding of the mechanisms of his bird, but excelled in flying. Their age was almost the only thing they shared.

"Outstanding, sir," Neilson offered a quick salute, which was returned, before starting the walk-around of the fighter. "Have a good evening."

"You too," the pilot said, striding down the deck, quickly met by Emory.

"You wanna grab something to eat quick?" his wingman suggested.

"Actually, yeah," Mason replied, suddenly realizing he hadn't ate before the CAP.

The young men were quiet as they traced the now-familiar route to the mess. Night watch was in full swing aboard the _Cathedral_, but to a casual observer, it would appear no different than the day watch. Mason had long since disregarded it as a day and night differential. It was more accurately described as an on watch/off watch. There was no day or night away from planetary bodies. Just a clock.

The two sat at the end of a long table after retrieving the "lunch" offering. They hadn't taken time to investigate what it was - it was of no concern. They simply ate in silence, looking forward to nothing but their bunks.

_"Attention - pass the word for Lieutenant Emory - Lieutenant Emory, please report to hanger bay five. Lieutenant Emory to hanger bay five."_

"What in the actual frak?" Emory growled through a mouthful of sandwitch. Most people, Emory included, had a distaste for being summoned via the overhead paging system. Especially during important times - like eating.

Mason laughed, the humor of Emory being interrupted eating predominating over his empathy. It wasn't fun to be interrupted, Mason knew. But it was also better Emory than him.

"Have fun," Mason remarked, dipping his sandwich in his soup.

"Right," Emory sighed, taking up his sandwich. "Seeya."

Mason nodded, almost a little sad that he had to finish his lunch by himself. _But, there's worse things. Not the first time. Won't be the last._

He casually watched crew members come and go, most people grabbing food and returning to their duty stations. Every type of uniform came and went - officers in duty blues, crewmen in dark green duty uniforms, knuckle draggers in bright orange utility jump suits, khaki duty uniforms worn by warrant officers, black battle fatigues worn by fleet marines, and the occasional yellow jump suit worn by arresting crew deckhands.

The young man hastily finished what was left of his meal, and stood to go, running headlong into a fleet Marine.

"Shit!" Mason said, surprised. Food trays went flying.

"Shit!" the Marine replied. Then, looking up, "Oh frak. Excuse me, sir."

Mason was still somewhat unfamiliar with being addressed as "sir." It was protocol, however. He was, after all, an officer. He blinked, looking down at the young Marine.

"No, no, corporal, my fault, I apologize," he said, hastily, bending down to pick up the food trays.

"No, sir, I should've been paying better attention, I apologize," she said, kneeling down to assist Mason, her face reddening slightly.

"Really, my bad," Mason offered a small smile, standing up slowly.

"Um," the Corporal hummed. "Right. I'm sorry. Were you done, sir? I can get you another ration."

"No, I was done," Mason replied, swallowing slightly hard. He silently thanked the gods that Emory wasn't around. "Were you?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, offering a nervous smile.

"Well at least we didn't dump any chow," Mason remarked, wondering if he was actually sounding as stupid to her as he sounded to himself. "I'll take care of these."

"Oh," she said, surprised. "That's ok, sir, really, I-"

"I got it," Mason smiled, starting towards the exit. The Marine looked around quickly before following.

"You really don't have to do that, sir," she said, catching up.

"I know," he replied. "But I have to make up for running headlong into you somehow, right? It's the least I can do."

"That's, um," she said, quietly. "That's very kind of you, sir."

"I'm still kind of new here," Mason said, tossing everything into the scuttle bin and turning to her. "I'm sorry I don't know your name."

"Emma, sir. Emma Landry."

"Scott Mason. Good to meet you."

"And you, sir," she replied.

_What are you doing, Scott _he asked himself.

They walked slowly out of the mess. Mason wasn't really paying attention to where they were headed. His attention was focused sideways at the newly acquainted Corporal Emma Landry, "So how long have you been aboard the _Cathedral_?"

"About a year now, sir," she replied, walking casually beside him. Mason caught himself remarking at the young lady. She was, in every sense of the word _cute_. A _cute_ Fleet Marine? "And you, sir?"

"Just about a month now," he said, looking at her brown eyes as he spoke.

"I see, sir," she said. The conversation was floating towards the awkward side as they walked. "Are you headed this way, sir?"

"Yeah," Mason lied. "Yeah, I have a...um, meeting down here."

She raised her eyebrows and nodded, "Right. I apologize, sir."

"No need," he smiled.

Her eyebrows furrowed suddenly, her pace slowing, "Sir, excuse me...but you said your name was Scott _Mason_?"

"That's right," the only Lieutenant Scott Mason in the Colonial Fleet answered.

"The same hotshot pilot Scott Mason who incited a riot against a bunch of Marines on Picon a few weeks back?"

"Uh," Mason stammered. "I don't think I incited anything, least of all a _riot_..."

"And some other pilot threw a rubbish bin lid at a Marine. Yeah, I'm certain someone said it was a guy named Mason," she narrowed her eyes, sizing him up.

"Listen, it wasn't like that," he said hastily. "Not at all. We were all drinking and-"

She suddenly broke into laughter. Mason stopped short, confused.

"It's alright, Lieutenant," she laughed. "Those jarheads stationed in Picon are all a bunch of dicks anyway. They just sit around talking about all the heavy things they can pick up. I'm sure they deserved it."

Mason sighed audibly, smiling slightly, "Well I certainly got my ass in some hot water over it."

"I'm sure you did, sir," she laughed, smiling and continuing on. Mason fell in step beside her. "You don't need to be concerned with that here, sir. The Marines on board here are focused on fighting a war. Not with parading around feet dry guarding some base somewhere."

"That's good to know," Mason said. "I'd hate to be off on the wrong foot with the Marines."

"As would I, sir," she agreed, smirking. Her eyes landed on his left shoulder. "Sir, I see you made it to the Vigilates."

"Yeah," Mason smiled, allowing his pride to show.

"Well done, sir. I've heard good things about them," she nodded.

"Thank you," Mason said, genuinely. They came to a halt outside a bulkhead door labeled _Enlisted Quarters_.

"Well, this is me, sir," Landry said, smiling again. "I hope you're not late for your meeting, sir."

"I - uh," Mason stammered. "No, actually, I should be on time."

She nodded, "Well, thank you for walking with me, sir."

"You bet," Mason smiled.

"Have a good morning, sir," she said, formally, drawing herself up and saluting.

Mason damned the regulations, returning the salute. He hated that she had to punctuate everything with "sir." Couldn't this be a little less formal?

"Right, good morning, Corporal," Mason said, glancing at his watch. 0113.

She smiled again, "I'll see you around, sir?"

"It's a small ship," Mason quipped, smirking.

"Yes, sir," she agreed, entering the bunk room and closing the door behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

Note:  
A quick shout out to the folks over at Battlestar Wiki - this resource has proved invaluable to me in my research for this story. It's amazing how vast the BSG universe actually is, and what a labor of love it is to keep a story sticking as close to canon as possible. This page has made it significantly easier writing both this story and _Gods and Arias_.

And I'm sure I'm not the only pen around here who is excited beyond words for _Blood and Chrome_. We'll see if I can weave it into this tale somehow...please enjoy reading this next installment, my friend. I'm honored that you're here. And I mean that in the most sincere way. Thank you.

5.

_"Watch it, Scott, watch it!"_

"I got him!"

_"Right with you, go get him!"_

Mason gritted his teeth and held his breath as the gravitational reaction of his Viper slammed into his body. Forty millimeter bullets sprayed everywhere. Flack cannon fire from the _Cathedral_ exploded about half a kilometer from the ship, sending white-hot pieces of shrapnel flying in all directions. Massive one hundred fifty centimeter shells whizzed through the fray of it all, bound for the looming mass of a Cylon Basestar which had invited itself into the _Cathedral_'s airspace only three minutes prior. Missiles belched from the robotic capital ship, bound for the _Cathedral_. And in the middle of it all was the most furious dogfight Mason had ever been a part of.

The two Vipers piloted by the Lieutenants Mason and Emory spun wildly through the fight, trying vainly to pick targets while not becoming targets themselves.

_"Gods, people, hold your fire until you're close!" _Wire screamed over Viper Tac. _"Another squadron coming in for the aft! Can you get there, eights?!"_

_"We got it!"_

Mason and Emory stuck close together, flying with alarming speed.

_"Scott - missiles!"_

"I see them!" Mason said, staring down another set of missiles loosed by the basestar. His mind wasn't concerned with the threat of the Cylon Raiders insomuch as it was with the near-constant barrage of missile fire aimed at the _Cathedral_.

"Wire, Mason!" he called on Viper tac. "Another set coming in for the nest! We're going for it!"

_"Good call - get after those missiles!"_ Wire replied, his voice haggard. _"And then do what you can with that basestar!"_

_"He's not serious,"_ Emory said, his face paling.

"Gods I hope not," Mason said, his pulse racing as he turned sharply for the missiles, putting distance between his Viper and the _Cathedral_.

_"I hope we know what we're doing," _his wingman laughed. It had become somewhat of an inside joke with the Vigilantes. Everyone had agreed that, on the by and large, _nobody_ knew what they were doing at any given time, except surviving. And that was only on a good day.

"Right?" Mason replied, feeling almost lighthearted. _Give me something hard next time_ he thought. _Take out the missiles speeding faster than my Viper can fly, and then go frak with the basestar a little bit. Sure. No problem._

_"Wire, _Cathedral _actual. I need a solution for those missiles, Wire."_

_"Mason and Emory are on it, sir! The rest of us are engaged with these fighters!"_

Mason could almost hear the "Oh, shit" on the other end of the wireless when the Commander was informed that he was taking the missile threat with Emory.

_"Fine, keep on it!"_

"Ok, Garrett, flip and fire. Sound good?" Mason asked.

_"Agreed. Half a klick?"_

"Let's do it," he said, nodding over at his wingman. The heads up display in front of him casually reported the swarming group of missiles - perhaps twenty in number - were bearing on the nose of his Viper consistently with a sickening speed. Fifty klicks became thirty. Then ten. Then five.

Mason took a deep breath and allowed his instincts to take over his conscious thought. His mind disregarded the heads up display and dradis. He fired his thrusters, bringing the tail end of his Viper swinging around to his left with speed. Another quick burst of reverse thrusters, and he was traveling backwards while maintaining a forward course towards the speeding warheads. The only problem now was that the pair of pilots were presenting the side profile of their nimble fighters to the barrage.

_"Almost..."_ Emory whispered. He watched as he flew parallel with Mason - the noses of their fighters facing each other as their momentum carried them forward. The distance between them, however, increased dramatically as they fired their reverse thrusters to compensate. The two kept their eyes on the incoming assault, judging the distance between their fighters by instinct. Emory hoped it would be just enough to split the difference.

Mason hoped for the same, "Here we go, Garrett..."

_"Roger!"_

They fired simultaneously. To the untrained eye, it looked as if they were literally firing at _each other_. Until the line of missiles intercepted their bullets speeding through the void. Chunks of metal sprayed in all directions. Missiles went wild and collided. Chaos reigned.

_"My gods I don't know how you guys do it, but keep doing it!" _Wire cried, ecstatic.

Mason smirked, flipping his Viper around and making speed for the basestar. He folded in next to his wingman about a hundred klicks from the basestar - their course leading them straight to it.

_"Got a plan?"_ Emory asked, looking over at Mason.

"Nope. You?" Mason shook his head, offering a raised-eyebrow expression to his friend.

_"Nope,"_ he replied, almost smiling at the absurdity. _"I must have been asleep when they taught about taking on a basestar with two Vipers in basic flight."_

"You too?" Mason quipped. The profile of the Cylon ship of the line grew steadily larger in his windscreen. Punishment raining from the _Cathedral_ sped past the two, passing in turn the unconcerned missile response from the basestar.

Mason's eyes ran over the exterior of the ship, looking for a clue as to where to begin. He came to a realization that he had _no idea_.

"Uh, Wire," he keyed up Viper tac. "Exactly how do I go to work on the basestar?"

_"Just frakking shoot at it until you're out of bullets or something! I don't know!" _Wire said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. _"Just watch your ass when you get close, they're gonna send at least a squadron after you!"_

_"Fantastic,"_ Emory sighed.

"Yeah, we're probably gonna die," Mason said matter-of-factually. "But let's have some fun before that, eh?"

_"Mason,_ Cathedral_ actual on Viper tac."_

_Oh, shit_ Mason thought, wheeling his Viper around a spread of missiles. "Go ahead, sir!"

_"Mason, concentrate your fire towards the Raiders that are still docked on the wing sections - take our their squadrons before they take us out, ok? You'll be just fine, son,"_ Weissbach said slowly over Viper tac.

Mason looked over at Emory. His friend considered the commander's words for a moment, and then nodded, a smirk forming. He fed off his confidence.

"Roger, sir, we're on it!" Mason replied, flipping his weapon selection to guns.

_"Ok, I'll head for the upper one,"_ Emory said, sizing up the massive ship. Its six star-shaped arms reached out like menacing hands from the central, circular hub of the ship. Raiders and missiles belched out from the underside of the long, pointed extensions.

"Well I think they see us," the young lieutenant remarked, seeing guns blaze to life along the edges of the ship.

_"Can't slip anything past you,"_ Emory laughed as he broke away from their formation, heading to an upper point.

Mason smiled, shaking his head. He quietly questioned why they would be joking with each other in the face of a terrifying assault from a Cylon basestar. But the question ebbed from his mind as he gently laid the throttle down to full, lining up the nose of his Mark II Viper with the point of one of the arms.

_"Scott, that's too fast!"_ Emory's voice sounded distant, as if he were yelling from across a large room.

Mason's breathing slowed, followed closely by his pulse. He squeezed the trigger gently as he aligned himself with the clustered mass of Raiders parked in the wing of the basestar. Forty millimeter bullets permeated the Cylon fighters, spraying shards of metal and frozen Cylon blood into the vacuum of space.

_"Mason!"_

The young pilot, who was casually observing the destruction he had just laid down, looked up through his windscreen. Basestar center. Half a klick.

Half a kilometer was not much in terms of distance, considering the speed at which Mason was traveling. It afforded him about one and a half seconds of reaction time before the nose of his fighter slammed into the hull of the Cylon vessel. He made the most of it.

Mason flipped his weapons over to missiles and loosed all four of his Viper's compliment towards the gleaming hull of the enemy ship. As soon as the missiles had cleared the rails of his fighter, he snaprolled with gut-wrenching speed to the right, clearing the hull with absolutely zero time.

Unbeknownst to Mason, Emory had mirrored his friend's tactic, albeit with slightly slower speed and reaction time, making it a total of eight missiles that the two pilots had generously laid on the doorstep of the basestar.

The resulting explosion was impressive, to say the least. Eight missiles concentrated on one place was enough to poke a respectable hole in the ship.

_"I think we just pissed it off, Scott,"_ Emory remarked, turning around as much as he could in his cockpit to survey the carnage.

Mason turned around as well, looking at the slightly-wounded basestar for any sign of distress or trouble. Despite flying metal and other debris, fresh volleys were still being launched.

_"Outstanding work!"_ Wire screamed over Viper tac. _"_Cathedral_, Wire, did you see that?!"_

_"Wire,_ _actual. We see it. Get Mason and Emory back to our airspace and keep at that basestar!"_

_"Acknowledged, sir! Eights and Vigilantes, everyone pull it together and get those two back here! Take your shot at the frakking toaster ship when she bears! Mason! Emory! Hustle back, right now. Immediately. I mean right frakking now!"_

"WIlco, sir!" Mason replied, only now realizing he was completely out of ammunition.

_"Roger, sir!"_ Emory called. _"Scott, are you out of ammo, too?"_

"Yeah, I'm out!" he replied, looking over at his wingman. Fresh dings and the odd bullet hole pockmarked his Viper.

_"...are you ok? I mean, you with it?"_ his Caprican friend asked, looking over at him as they sped back through the fray.

"Yeah. Yeah, I - I'm ok!" Mason said, shaking his head quickly for a second or two, as if to shake something off of it. He blinked furiously a couple of times, trying to remember what he just did. He looked around, taking in the scene.

Raiders were scattered everywhere, some engaging, some forming up for more runs at the _Cathedral_. The rest of the Aces n' Eights and the Vigilantes were forming up with speed to take a shot at the hole he and Emory had just created.

"Garrett! We gotta do something about the Raiders!" he said without thinking.

_"Really, Scott? With what ammo?"_ Emory asked, outraged.

"We don't need ammo!" Mason replied. "Let's just frak with them a little and keep them off the _Cathedral_!"

_"'We don't need ammo.' Mason, that is the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say. That's amazing. That is incredible," _Emory said, his mouth agape. _"Can we get someone to play that back? That is literally the stupidest-"_

"Shut up, Garrett, you know what we're gonna do!" Mason rolled his eyes. He kept the throttle pinned, looking around wildly for a group of Raiders to harrass.

_"Of course. That doesn't mean you're sane, though,"_ Emory replied, flying tight on Mason's starboard wing.

Mason cracked a brief smile at his friend before locking his eyes on a group of wing-shaped Raiders moving with speed toward the _Cathedral_.

"There - on our ten high, see 'em?"

_"Roger, tally six?"_

"Six tally, roger," Mason nodded. "We're gonna have to fly right in front of them-"

_"-and their guns-"_

"-yes, and their guns, to do this, ok?"

_"I should've been a dentist."_

"And I should've been a firefighter or something safe like that," Mason cracked, adjusting his angle of approach. "Ten seconds."

_"Roger."_

Mason and Emory sped past the flight of Raiders close enough to scorch the paint. The flight scattered momentarily, but quickly resumed course toward the _Cathedral_.

"Ok, other options," Mason remarked, wheeling his Viper around hard to pursue.

_"We could try blocking in front of them, but then we'd just get blown to frak,"_ Emory said, coming about hard.

Mason risked a glance over to the looming basestar. Missiles were being lobbed in the general direction of the capital ship - most pilots were doing their best in the face of a fierce barrage of gunfire and flack shells.

_They can't do it_ Mason thought. The firepower was just too overwhelming. To inflict further damage on the basestar was a lost cause.

_"Dradis contact! Something just jumped in!"_

_"Frak, now what?"_ sighed Emory. The day was already looking grim without the presence of something else.

"Cathedral! _Colonial Cruiser _Fairwood Common - _need a hand?"_

Mason's heart leaped in his chest. The menacing hulk of the _Bezerk_-class Cruiser _Fairwood Common_ had just jumped into the fray and let loose a devastating broadside toward the basetar.

"Fairwood Common_, this is _Cathedral_ actual! Damn good to see you guys!" _

"_Cylons are running for it, sir!"_ Wire's voice came over the conversation. _"Permission to pursue?!"_

"_Granted - get after them! _Fairwood, _are you in a position to pursue?"_

"_That's affirmative, Commander! We'll chase them!"_

Mason's face split into a grin as he saw every remaining Cylon abruptly turn a hard six.

"_All Vipers on bingo, out of ammo, or bent, get home. The rest follow me until they jump!" _Wire called over Viper tac.

"Aw, frak," Mason muttered, looking at the glaring "0" on his ammunition readout. His fuel was also flirting with the limit.

"_Come on, Scott. Let's get home," _Emory's relieved voice said as he pulled alongside. _"I think we've had enough fun for one day, eh?"_

"Probably," Mason sighed, lining himself up with the landing pattern. He was slightly troubled to see Vipers limping back to the _Cathedral_ - some with very obvious damage.

"_No, Airgun, get ahead of us for the love of the gods! You're spewing tyllium!" _Emory barked.

"_Thanks!" _Airgun flashed a thumbs-up as he passed Mason and Emory, his Viper belching out a frozen vapor trail of raw tyllium fuel.

Mason took a deep breath and slowed his speed further as he settled into the landing pattern. Only then did he chance a look at his own Viper.

"Well, there goes the resale value," he remarked, looking at a gaping meter-long slash in his port wing.

"_Get a little banged up?"_ Emory asked, craning his neck to see.

"Nothing serious," Mason shrugged.

"Cathedral,_ Wire, the basestar has jumped away, sir!"_

"_We see it, Wire. Well done. Let's round up the birds and get them to the nest,"_ Weissbach sounded genuinely happy. Probably for the first time in his life.

"_Aye, sir! Squadrons acknowledge."_

Mason, feeling exhaustion beginning to wash over him, double-clicked and pointed the nose of his Viper toward the launch pod, preparing himself for yet another combat landing.

* * *

"Mason. Emory. Both of you to the Commander's office," Wire barked from across the hanger deck.

"What the frak?" Mason sighed, leaning back against his ground ladder and closing his eyes.

"Nice going," Emory said, walking around the nose of his Viper.

"Look," Wire walked up to the two. "I dunno what it is. Honestly. But again, that was amazing flying. Keep it up and you'll be in charge of this hallowed _Cathedral _some day."

Mason laughed heartily as he removed the silver airlock collars from around his wrists and neck, "Right."

Emory shook his head, "Don't encourage him, Major."

"Go take a flying frak at a rolling doughnut, won't you?" Mason sighed, smiling at Emory.

"Only if you go take a flying frak at the nearest moon," Emory replied, laughing, running a hand through his sweat-drenched light brown hair. It was the elation of surviving, again, that kept them even talking and upright despite their exhaustion.

They started their trek down the hanger deck, rolling up the sleeves on their flight suits in a vain attempt to cool off. They were happy to see that everyone had made it home this time, despite some Vipers that looked much worse for their wear. Salutations were yelled across the hanger. Mason even spied a pilot from the Eights who had smuggled a cold six pack of beer onto the flight deck. The pilot - some guy named Hewitt, if Mason's memory served - passed them out to his ground crew members, who promptly toasted to the fact that they were all still alive.

He made a mental note to do the same with Neilson and his young ground crew.

"Gods above, I bet we're getting kicked off the ship," Emory sighed as they stepped into a lift.

"Don't be so pessimistic," Mason said as the lift rattled upward. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"You don't get called to the frakking Commander's office for nothing, Scott," his wingman leaned up against the wall of the lift, closing his darkly hazel eyes and rubbing them fiercely.

The pair exited the lift quickly as it arrived on the requested deck. A dizzying left, right, right, then a left. They came to a stop in front of a mostly-ordinary looking bulkhead - ordinary excepting the hand-painted lettering announced "Commander G. Weissbach" on the heavy door.

Mason raised a fist to knock, casting a sidelong glance at Emory, who shrugged. He pounded the door three times.

"Come in," the intercom buzzed. Mason pushed open the door.

"Mason, Emory, come in," Weissbach said, glancing up only once from his desk. He sat with a shaded reading lamp on, and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The office was a stately and surprisingly ornate affair, with dark beige carpet and black-stained heavy woodwork adorning most of it. A massive, plush throw rug was sprawled over the floor - with the same white-on-black Battlestar _Cathedral_ crest that was featured on the left shoulders of the young lieutenants who had just entered.

"Sir. Lieutenants Mason and Emory reporting as ordered," Mason said quietly as they walked up to the Commander's desk and stood at attention.

"At ease, for frak's sake," Weissbach growled as he stood. He walked over to a black-stained cabinet and pulled out three heavy-bottomed glasses and poured about a finger's worth of a deep amber liquid in all of them. He handed the glasses to the pilots before him, who took them with a mixture of amazement and shock on their faces.

Weissbach considered their faces for a moment or two before breaking into the certain brand of gruff laughter that only elder men were capable of.

"You should see your faces," he wheezed, laughing harder.

Mason was thoroughly confused. As was his wingman. They stood, clutching their glasses and quite unsure of what to do next.

"Drink, you idiots," Weissbach said, raising his glass.

They raised their glasses in turn and took a long pull. It was the best alcohol that Mason had ever tasted.

"Okay, listen," the Commander loosened the top buttons of his dark blue duty jacket and leaned on the edge of his desk. "The flying that you two do. It's incredible. I thought that the first few times you two went up, it was just a fluke. You're lucky. But I was wrong. You're more than lucky. You're good."

Mason focused all of his energy on not losing consciousness there on the spot.

"You seem to analyze the tactical situations instantly, and then seemingly choose the best option for dealing with it. Consistently," Weissbach drained his glass as he continued. "You don't find that often. Which is why I asked you here."

The two stood silently, waiting on pins for the Commander's next remark.

"Before our run-in today, Admiral Schaeffer and I spoke about the fleet's next move in this war," Weissbach cleared his throat and clasped his hands in front of him. "Now, it's an assignment that requires a certain skill set, found in only my best people. I can't exactly send my CAG or Roundhouse or any of the other senior pilots. The simple fact is that I'm just running low on Viper jocks. I need all the pilots I can get. And when I get good ones, I need to keep them. It's a two way street with you two. You're good, but you're also new. Which means I can send you on this assignment without compromising the integrity of the Air Group. It's that simple, guys. When it comes your turn to command a Battlestar, you'll understand."

_There they go again_ Mason thought. _Gods help me if I'm ever in command of a frakkin' Battlestar._

Weissbach turned and grabbed two packets off of his desk. They were wax-sealed.

"Holy frak," Emory breathed, examining the seal closely. It was the seal of the Fleet Admiral himself.

"Holy frak is right," Weissbach said, folding his arms. "Do me a favor. Read these in a private place. This assignment is two-alpha. You don't have to do it. In fact, they may end up scrubbing the idea altogether. But I need to know by midnight if you accept. Sound reasonable?"

Mason was amazed that Weissbach had just asked if something sounded _reasonable_ to him. This had to be some really rowdy stuff.

"Yes, sir," Mason nodded. Emory also nodded, "Yes, sir."

"Good," Weissbach almost smiled. "Don't let it go to your heads, though, boys. You're still pretty green at the stick. But I like a little arrogance in my pilots. I flew with the best, and now I command the best. It's that simple. That will be all, gentlemen."

"Aye, sir," Mason and Emory said together, drawing themselves up and saluting.

Weissbach saluted in return, nodding them out the door.

* * *

"That was literally the best whiskey I have ever tasted," Emory said, his eyes dreamy.

"Probably the last time you'll taste it, too," Mason cracked, shoving the briefing packet into his flight suit. "They only give that shit to the command staff, I'm sure."

"I gotta wonder what this thing is," said Emory. "I mean...two alpha? From the Fleet Admiral himself?"

"Let's go see, then," replied Mason. They darted downward through the ship, heading towards a conference room they knew would be vacant.

They quickly checked both ends of the corridor to make sure their entrance into the conference room wouldn't be noticed. They entered quickly, finding the table and the reading lamps.

"Well, let's see what the big secret is," Emory said, breaking the seal on the packet and opening it.

Mason did the same and began reading:

FROM: FLT. ADM. SCHAEFFER - COMCOLFLT  
TO: CMDR. G. WEISSBACH - C.O. BSG45 CATHEDRAL  
CC: R. ADM. P. FORSBERG; R. ADM. C. McCLEOD  
RE: PROPOSED COLONIAL OFFENSIVE  
SEC. CLR: CLASSIFIED - EYES ONLY

Weissbach -  
Through recon missions and satellite observations, the Fleet has learned of a particular Cylon Basestar operating as a sort of "command ship" for most Cylon offensives against the Colonies. The ship in question has been hidden deep within an asteroid field, and is heavily fortified through a massive defensive fighter squadrons and fixed gun systems both on the ship and on the surrounding asteroids.

Destruction of this particular basestar would most certainly change the tide of the war. However, odds of survival do not appear favorable to any Colonial forces who engage this particular target.

We have enclosed coordinates of the basestar and what we know about the defenses, which is, admittedly, not much. If any tactical advantages present themselves, please present to proper command authority.

- Schaeffer

ENCL: PP 2-10

CLASSIFIED

Mason looked up to see Emory staring at him, his eyes wide with a shock and fear that he had never seen before.

"And Weissbach wants..._us_...to do this?" Emory asked, very quietly.

Lieutenant Scott Mason set the packet down in front of him.

"I guess so," he whispered, an icy cold feeling lacing its way through his stomach.

The men were silent for a moment, contemplating the new assignment. Mason read and re-read the line "_-odds of survival do not appear favoable to Colonial forces who engage this particular target."_

Emory had dropped all the emotional armor that Viper jocks usually wore. He looked up, his eyebrows arched, "Scott, this...this is a one-way trip."

Mason nodded, a storm behind his eyes, "Weissbach asked us to do this. I don't know what he expects of us, though...I mean, Garrett, we hardly know what the frak we're doing here. This...this is so much different."

Emory leaned forward, running his hand through his hair, visibly shaken, "But. But, it would almost win the war."

"That's the real catch," Mason sighed deeply. He contemplated the ramifications of his response. He was afraid. Very afraid. But he remembered a quote a very old Viper pilot had told him one day after a classroom session in basic flight.

_Y'know, kid, what courage is? Courage isn't the absence of fear. It is the willful decision that something is more important than fear._

"What time is it?" said Emory, snapping Mason out of his thoughts.

"Twenty-thirty-seven," Mason muttered, looking at his watch.

"We've got four hours to decide?" his friend asked, completely at a loss. "I need to sleep on it. Just for an hour, maybe..."

Emory slowly got up, shoving the briefing packet in his flight suit, exiting without another word.

* * *

The young lieutenant Mason sat for a moment or two longer, staring at the packet. Slowly, he got up and shoved the packet into his flight suit as Emory had done. He wandered out of the conference room, heading for the mess for no particular reason.

He stood in the chow line, not speaking or making eye contact with anyone. His eyes burned holes in the floor. He took his meal from Otto without a word.

"Hey, Lieutenant Mason! What's wrong?" Otto asked, his round face concerned.

Mason blinked hard, "Nothing, Otto, I'm fine. Thank you."

He walked away quickly, heading for the corner of the mess hall. He sat down, staring at the food in front of him without touching it. Time ticked slowly by, and the steam rising from dinner slowly disappeared. Mason was lost in his thoughts, unconcerned.

"Sir?"

Mason looked up slowly, locking his deeply blue eyes with a set of darkly shaded brown ones.

"Are you alright, sir?" asked Corporal Landry, who had appeared from seemingly nowhere.

"Can I ask you something?" Mason inquired.

"Sure," Landry blinked, tilting her head to the side, displaying a slightly confused expression.

"Can you please drop the formalities? I'm Scott. At least for right now?" Mason asked.

"I'm not sure I-"

"Please don't make me order you," he almost begged.

She stood, considering this a moment. She sighed, setting her ration down. Taking a seat, she said, "Okay. Scott it is. What's wrong? The whole ship is buzzing about you and Emory. I guess you really are as good as the rumors say."

Mason smiled, "I don't think so. I just know how to fly. That's my part in all of this."

Landry smiled in return, "So why aren't you up getting yourself wasted with the rest of the Viper jocks?"

"Eh," Mason stumbled momentarily. "Just didn't feel like it. Plus, you gotta put some food down before you do that, y'know?"

She took a very un-ladylike chomp at her food, nodding.

Mason waited for her to finish, "So...where are you from?"

"Scorpion," Landry replied. "And you?"

"Tauron," Mason said.

"Ah, I love Tauron!" she smiled. "The seasons are just awesome there. And Hypathia is such an awesome city. Are you from there?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I love it there, too. But I loved vacationing on Scorpion. Great fishing there."

"There is," Landry smiled, setting her fork down and looking at him. "So...you still haven't told me why it is you're sitting by yourself staring off into the frakking void."

"It's..." Mason began. "It's nothing. Just a long day."

"Frak I should say so," she swore again like the Marine she was. "Our Major ran us around the entire ship from stern to bow during the whole thing, insisting we were getting boarded by Cylons. What an idiot. You Viper jocks handled it, as always."

"We almost lost it," Mason remarked, nodding. "So I'm glad you guys were ready to keep the nest safe for us."

She shrugged, taking another huge bite of food. Mason found himself relaxing slightly. If nothing else, the conversation itself was just enjoyable. It was something Mason treasured. He immensely enjoyed getting to know people, getting to know their stories. He held a firm belief that every person, no matter who they were, had a fantastic story to tell. He secretly wanted to know them all. Every story fascinated him to no end.

"I dunno, Scott, it's just nice to get away from the Marines for while and I guess...talk, y'know?" she said, hitting the nail on the head.

"You have no idea," Mason sighed, looking into her eyes with an almost sad expression. She stopped short, staring at his eyes.

In that instant, Mason knew what he had to do.

"Well?" Emory asked as Mason met him outside of the Vigilantes bunk room.

Mason looked at him without any expression or words. They turned, heading upward to the Commander's office.

* * *

Emory knocked this time.

"Come in."

The two entered slowly, closing the door behind them. Weissbach sat behind his desk, his eyes focused intensely at the two young pilots before him. He sized them up for a minute before asking, "Well? What do you think?"

Mason glanced at Emory before slowly meeting the Commander's gaze. His eyes narrowed, focused and confident.

"Sir. We'll do it."


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Mason sat casually slouched in his briefing chair as some no-name Captain droned on about the finer points of a Basestar's defensive properties and known weaknesses. He nodded occasionally, the cap of his pen resting on the corner of his mouth.

In all reality, he wasn't hearing a word the Captain was saying. In fact, he wasn't consciously thinking much of anything. He had long since settled with the fact that the past five weeks, which had been his first five weeks in the Colonial Fleet, would also be his last.

Some would think that it was a morbid way of thinking, a hopeless, un-optimistic way. And they would be partially right. But as the two young men seated in the leather briefing chairs knew, life expectancy for almost anyone in the fleet just wasn't that high. It was the price paid by being on the losing side of a war.

"-and so the likelihood of having a SAR Raptor enroute to you for at least twenty four hours is somewhat unlikely, we're looking at maybe thirty six to forty hours-"

"Sir," Emory's accented voice interjected. "I know that you're aware..."

"Yes," the Captain said. "I know. Raptors don't carry the self-contained atmosphere packs like the Vipers. Which is why your Raptor will be retrofitted with those packs. You'll have your normal forty-eight hours of air once you punch out."

"Why can't we just have a SAR Raptor standing by once we get around to blowing the gods damned thing?" Mason asked.

"Any Colonial forces on the edge of the sector would not only arouse suspicion, but also probably be subject to attack," Weissbach spoke from the corner of the room, where he stood with Wire. "You know that, Mason. We can't just keep sending Raptors out to hang out while you guys look for a way in, all the while getting blown up. Lots of people will die."

Mason nodded, "As opposed to just us."

An uncomfortably thick silence fell in the room. The Captain from fleet headquarters looked at his boots so intently that Mason actually believed that it was his first time seeing his feet. And by his well-fed appearance, it may have been.

Emory stood, "Look, everyone. Mason and I know what this is. There's no secrets here. The only reason we're doing it is because we believe that it will turn the tide. And that maybe, just maybe, we'll start to make some progress in this bloody war. So don't sit there and act like you're sorry to see us go. We certainly aren't."

Mason snickered, "Well, maybe you, but I'm sure there's people that'll miss me..."

"Shut the frak up, you don't have any friends," Emory fired back, smirking. "Nobody likes you."

"You're right, of course," Mason smirked back.

Weissbach laughed gruffly, exchanging a look with Wire, who smirked in return. The Captain from Fleet HQ looked around uncomfortably, unfamiliar with the parlance.

"You'll leave in twenty-four hours. The coordinates will be finalized by then, along with the payload and your final orders. We'll brief again in twelve hours, right here. You gentlemen know exactly how important this is, and how secret it must stay. We are the only people aboard this ship who know about this," Weissbach said, looking around at Wire, Mason, Emory, and the no-name Captain. "And that is how it needs to stay."

"Aye, sir," was the chorus.

* * *

The forward observation deck wasn't necessarily a place that Mason could say he frequented. It was usually filled with non-commissioned officers and their significant others, making out with reckless abandon, Fleet regulations be damned. It wasn't that Mason was _opposed_ to such extra-curricular activities, nor the fact that he was a commissioned officer. There were plenty of those who frequented the place, anyway. No, it was simply that he hadn't had a reason to go.

It had dawned upon him, however, that he may never again have the opportunity to see it. Or to really appreciate it. It wasn't the fact that one could take in the massive view of space around them. He got his fill of seeing what was outside of the ship when he was on CAP. It was the atmosphere of the room. It was designed to inspire thought, awe, and other very human emotions in what would be an otherwise very un-human ship.

_And we need to cling to that_ Mason thought as he rested his forearms on a highly polished bannister, leaning his weight forward. _If we lose that...then what the hell are we fighting for anyway?_

"Scott?"

_Irony at its finest,_ he thought. He turned, smiling at Landry.

"I suppose you want to know what I'm doing here," he presumed.

"Well, yeah," she smiled slightly, not quite masking her confusion. "But I suppose you want to know the same thing."

Mason nodded, looking back out the meter-thick window into space, "I don't really know why I'm here, I guess. Just wandering around, thinking, I suppose."

"Thinking?" she pressed, a smirk forming. "That's not possible. Viper jocks don't have brains."

"And it's always been a mystery to me why Fleet Marines wear helmets," Mason retorted without missing a beat. "I mean, why invest protection in something that doesn't need protected? A gross misapplication of valuable Fleet resources, in my opinion..."

Landry put on her best shocked face, despite breaking into laughter. She wound her fist back and threw a moderately-powered punch at his shoulder. Mason was surprised at the force behind it. But, of course, he kept it to himself.

"So I guess that just makes us a couple of mindless fleet drones, wasting their time looking out of a frakkin' window," she sighed, leaning up against the railing next to him. The room was empty, save for them.

"You still didn't tell me what brought you here," Mason said, looking to his left and slightly down at her. She cracked a sad smile.

"Oh, some guys in my platoon set me up with some guy from another company," she sighed, staring out the window. "It was kind of a dare, I guess. To see who would actually show. I guess the other guy didn't have the stones to do it."

Mason paused momentarily before remarking, "his loss, then."

She blinked, allowing a quizzical look to cross her face before turning to him, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well it's his loss that he doesn't get to spend this time with you," the young pilot said. "It's nice just to be able to take a moment or two here, in this place. But to share it with someone...that's a privilege unto itself. And to share it with someone like you...then we're talking about something that can't have a price set on it."

She turned, facing him, looking at him intently - her dark brown eyes searching his face. "What the hell do you mean, Scott? Are you ok? What's going on?"

"Can't you just accept a compliment?" Mason sighed, turning his back to the window and leaning against the bannister.

"Well...no," said Landry. "You don't just say shit like that and expect me not to think about it."

Mason sighed, "Look. I like you, Emma. You're smart, funny, and about as tough as they come. I like seeing you when I can. It's interesting that we just keep running into each other around this massive ship, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the biggest, longest war that we've ever known. A lot of things to think about. A lot of things that don't add up. But I'm not worried about them. I'm just worried about surviving. But it doesn't even look like that's going to happen, so I mean what the frak, right?"

She stared a moment, taking in the rant. She paused, giving consideration to her next statement, "What do you mean you're not going to survive?"

_Nice going, Mason._

"I..." he began, pausing. "I can't really speak to that. I can tell you that I'm leaving soon. Very soon. And that I probably won't be coming back. I don't really want to think about that. But I don't want anyone else thinking about that, either."

Landry shifted her weight, looking at him.

"I'm sorry," Mason sighed, mentally berating himself. "I shouldn't have dumped all that on you. You have enough to worry about."

She remained silent, shifting her eyes from his, to out the window, and back to him.

"Right," the young pilot sighed again. He turned to the door, "have a good evening, Corporal."

"Lieutenant," she said, quietly. Mason felt her hand close around his wrist. He turned to her, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah?" he asked.

She stepped up to him, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. The heels of her boots left the ground as she stood higher, kissing him softly.

Mason let his concerns wash away as he felt her soft lips against his. If nothing else, he wanted to remember this. He knew he wasn't in love with her. And he knew she didn't love him. What they did know was that moments like the one they were sharing were what made up the parts of who they were. The mutual feelings of want and belonging kept them going through the darkness that was their time.

They parted slowly, reluctantly. They both stood momentarily, looking at each other, considering the implications of what had just occurred.

She made the move, which Mason was grateful for. She stepped forward, folding her arms around his neck and burying her head into his chest. Mason held her in return.

"For what it's worth," she said softly, "wherever you're going...I hope you make it back."

"Me too," he whispered.

* * *

Mason and Emory stood in front of their assigned Raptor, holding their flight gear and a duffel between the two of them.

"I hope you packed at least two beers," Emory sighed, looking at the bag.

"There's six in there," Mason replied, smirking.

"Outstanding, that's all I care about," his friend replied. "Oh, and maybe some cigars..."

"There's four."

They boarded their craft with little fanfare - just a signature to acknowledge the reception of the ordinance package, which was minimal, considering. Four Archer missiles, and five thousand rounds of forty mike-mike, eight recon drones - the usual.

What it didn't take into consideration was the payload they were to pick up at the Scorpion yards. Their orders had been terrifyingly chilling. They were to jump directly to the Scorpion yards, and take on a payload of three nuclear warheads surrounded by a metric ton of G4 explosive. From there, they were to disable the Raptor's transponder, and jump into Cylon occupied space, find the Basestar, and destroy it by detonating the payload.

The two silently contemplated this as they began pre-flight checks. Mason had won the coin toss - and thus sat in the lead pilot's chair. Emory adjusted the recline in the co-pilot's chair and frowned at the dradis.

"Gentlemen," came the familiar voice of Wire from the rear of the gutted-out craft. They turned in unison.

"Sir?" Mason asked, confused.

The CAG held up an envelope, sealed with wax. "New intel. Straight from the top."

Emory took the envelope and quietly closed the Raptor's side-open door. Mason and Wire looked on intently as Emory opened the envelope and pulled out several glossy photos.

"My _gods_..." Mason breathed, his eyes wide.

The trio held their respective breaths as Emory slowly shuffled through the stack. The grainy satellite photos told a story despite the poor quality of the shots. Even from the distance, it was clear that several other Cylon Basestars had amassed with the previously reported singular command vessel. Cloudy-looking masses surrounded the Basestars - their makeup unclear. However, the three pilots knew enough to properly assume that they were squadrons of Raiders patrolling the space around the capital ships.

"No," Wire shook his head, standing as much as he could with the limited headroom. "Absolutely not. This is a suicide mission. You two aren't going."

"Sir," Mason looked up at him. "Sir, with respect...if we _can_ get in there and pull it off - I mean, look at the amount of Cylons there. It has to be something big. Something big for them means something very bad for us. We can preempt this, sir."

"No way," the CAG said, forcefully this time. "I'm going to talk to Weissbach right now. This is stupid."

Wire slammed his fist on the door hatch release, muttering something about military intelligence. He stutter-stepped down the port wing of the Raptor and stalked off.

Mason sighed, looking to his right at Emory. Emory returned the look.

"Well, great," he said in his marked Caprican accent. "This has been a fun past forty eight hours of planning."

"There has to be a reason for that much of the Cylon fleet to be in one spot," Mason said, his mind racing. "Cylons are logical, right?"

"They're machines, Scott, so yes," Emory answered, his brow furrowing.

"The logical course of action when at war is to keep your assets spread, just like we're doing by keeping the Battlestars spread out, so they aren't subject to a massive ambush or something like that, right?" Mason continued, feverishly. "_Unless_, of course, it is more _efficient _and _logical_ to group up your assets in preparation for something - where mobilization from positions spread out would be _in_efficient and present a tactical disadvantage..."

"Scott, you've gone section eight," Emory's eyebrows raised this time. "You're crazy. Literally."

"Come on, Garrett, doesn't it make sense?!" Mason sighed, frustrated. "Think like a Cylon for a moment!"

Emory was silent, staring out the windscreen of the Raptor at the busy hanger deck before them. He spoke after a moment, "You think they mean to launch an offensive."

"That's exactly what I think," he replied. "And soon. They're not the type to wait."

"But this is based off of a _feeling_ you have, Scott," Emory pleaded. "You'll never get this above Wire - let alone the Commander."

"That's not my intention," Mason said, quietly. "You'd better get off the Raptor, Garrett."

Emory shook his head, sighing deeply, "You know you're not going alone."

"I appreciate it," Mason smiled at Emory as he began quick start-up procedures.

"I just hope you're wrong," his friend sighed.

Mason nodded as he ignited the twin engines and brought them to a comfortable idle. This went by unnoticed, as the normal course of air traffic around a Battlestar involved a Raptor landing or taking off ever ten minutes, on average.

"They're not going to clear the pattern for us," Emory remarked. "I'm assuming you're just going to rocket your way out of here?"

"Unless you can think of something better," Mason shrugged.

"Not exactly," sighed the co-pilot deeply. He knew he was committed. For better or worse.

"Right," nodded Mason.

"So I'll spin the FTL as soon as we clear the tubes and plot the jump, you'll have to keep us away from anyone trying to keep us here," Emory said quietly, calculating.

"Can do," Mason smiled, recognizing the combat mindset taking over his co-pilot's train of thought.

They began a very slow taxi down the hanger deck to the launch tube. A few deckhands looked on, curious. It was unusual to see a Raptor taxing without a ground guide.

_"Mason!"_

_Every_ head on the hanger deck turned towards the sound of the CAG - who had arrived and promptly was beside himself.

"Well, shit," said Mason, matter-of-factually.

Wire sprinted from the bulkhead door, grabbing whatever he could. In this case, it was a large pipe wrench. He threw it with vehement force towards the taxiing Raptor.

The wrench bounced off the side of the multirole spacecraft with a resounding _CLANG_.

"I think he's mad," Emory stated.

"Indeed," Mason agreed, looking to his left and behind him at the group of people now running towards his Raptor. "We're going to have to make a break for it."

Emory grabbed his throttle cyclic as Mason grasped his. They pushed them forward simultaneously, accelerating the Raptor down the narrow pathway of the hanger deck. Knuckle-draggers dove for cover as everything not secured to the deck was strewn about in the jet blast behind them. Tool boxes, spare parts, and the odd crewman went flying.

Mason eyeballed the distance to the launch tube doorway, and began turning the Raptor to compensate. Emory took control of the throttle as Mason drove the Raptor through the narrow opening and on to the seven hundred and fifty meter runway.

"Well, here goes," Emory said, looking at Mason and smirking. Mason smirked in return, pointing the nose of the Raptor towards the trapezoid-shaped opening at the end of the tunnel. Emory laid the throttles down to full.

The walls of the landing pod raced past the windscreen as the Raptor accelerated, straining to escape the artificial gravity generated by the _Cathedral_.

"CAP's landing, Scott!" Emory said in a strained voice.

"I see them!" Mason replied, picking apart the staggered two-by-two formation of Vipers as they intended to land. He deftly wove the Raptor through the landing Vipers - careful to avoid each fighter's glide path. He chanced a look to his left - where he saw Airgun's face, completely devoid of any emotion except utter confusion as they sped down the landing pod.

_"-wait, what the frak?!-"_

_"-checkers red! Say again, checkers red! Some jackass Raptor pilot is taking off! Wave off!"_

_"-what in the?-"_

_"-Wave off! Wave off, gods damn it!"_

The wireless traffic was frantic as half of the CAP was diverted around the landing pattern for another go-around. It was quite the sorrid mess that Mason and Emory had created.

_"Raptor Eight-Eight-Seven, Raptor Eight-Eight-Seven, _Cathedral_ control, please identify!"_

"I suppose you owe them at least that, don't you?" Emory asked.

"Probably," Mason replied. "_Cathedral_ control, Raptor Eight-Eight-Seven, callsign Mason, go ahead."

_"Raptor Eight-Eight-Seven, cease current course and speed and assume heading one-one-eight at one-quarter sublight for escort."_

"_Cathedral_ control, Raptor Eight-Eight-Seven, we cannot comply with orders, recommend to clear airspace on all headings one-zero-zero to one-eight-zero for flight," Mason replied, coolly.

_"Raptor Eight-Eight-Seven, you are ordered to correct speed and course as instructed."_

"_Cathedral_, Eight-Eight-Seven, I don't really know how to put this, but it's just not going to happen," Mason replied as the Raptor cleared the landing pod and shot into open space.

"_Eight-Eight-Seven, _Cathedral_ actual. Mason, I'd sure like to know what the hell it is you're doing."_

Mason exchanged a glance with Emory, who gave him a look as if to say _this is your mess_. Mason keyed up, "_Cathedral_ actual, Mason. Sir, I'd be happy to explain it to you when we get back."

_"Son, you're out of line. I hope you know that."_

Mason swallowed hard, "That's affirmative, sir."

The wireless was silent for a moment. Emory looked to his left, nodding at Mason. The coordinates were laid.

_"I sure hope you know what you're doing. If nothing else...good hunting."_

Mason wasn't rightly sure as to how to reply to the Commander. Instead, he simply confirmed the coordinates, and launched the Raptor into FTL without ceremony.

* * *

In the same instant, the looming mass of the Scorpion Ship Yards appeared before the small craft. The young men let out audible sighs.

"Well we're committed now," Emory said, stretching his arms toward the ceiling of the Raptor. "In violation of about five statutes in the Uniform Code..."

"At least," Mason nodded. "Now...how the hell do we get into the shipyards..."

"The thing about you, Scott," Emory sighed as he rose from the co-pilot's chair and crouch-walked to the rear of the craft. "Is you have excellent ideas, but no idea how to make them happen."

Mason furrowed his brow, "Oh and you do?"

"Watch," his friend smirked, using a pair of pliers to pull away a section of paneling on the side of the craft. He reached behind the panel, and firmly pulled out a small wire.

Mason tilted his head to the side, "That's the transponder, Garrett."

"You're incredibly astute," he nodded, pulling a small, handheld device out of a cargo pocket on his flight suit. He held it up for Mason to see, "you just never know when you're going to need a new transponder signal in the middle of nowhere, now do you?"

Mason wheeled around, peering closely at the dradis readout as Emory plugged the device in. The small dot in the middle of the screen denoting the particular Raptor they were in quickly changed without notice. In about a second, "R887" became "R396."

"My gods," remarked Mason.

Emory returned to the co-pilot's chair, looking extremely satisfied with himself, "And now, a bit of theater. Point us in the direction of the main docking bay, if you please."

"If you say so," Mason said, completely at a loss for the strategy that Emory was about to employ. He fired the thrusters slightly and gave the Raptor a little throttle, pointing the craft towards the massive structure.

Emory returned to the back of the craft, grabbing a fifteen-liter metal tin labeled "Drinking Water." He pulled the cap off, and set it on the floor. He then reached to the perishable ration container they had brought aboard, and pulled out a handful of the ice pellets with a gloved hand.

"Frozen carbon dioxide," Mason nodded, smiling. Suddenly, Emory's plan was very clear. His friend nodded to him as he dropped the pellets into the drinking water tin. In short order, the tin began to ooze a cloud of white smoke that coated the floor. Emory agitated the mixture slightly, causing more smoke to roll out of the container.

"Excellent," Emory nodded, returning to his co-pilots chair. In a matter of moments, the white "smoke" had halfway filled the cabin of the Raptor.

"Scorpion Yard control, Scorpion Yard control, this is Raptor Three-Niner-Six, requesting priority vector to land - we are declaring an emergency, smoke in the cockpit - acknowledge," Emory said coolly into the wireless.

_"Raptor Three-Niner-Six, Scorpion Control, we have you. Pattern will hold for you, checkers are red, it's all yours."_

"Uh, roger, Scorpion Control. I say again, declaring an emergency, smoke in the cockpit, unknown source."

_"Roger, declaring emergency, can you land unassisted?"_

"Ah, affirmative, Control," Emory replied with a glance at Mason. "Avionics are ok, personnel ok, have taken appropriate precautions."

_"Roger, solid copy Three-Niner-Six, switch to niner for approach and land - crash rescue is standing by."_

"Roger, niner for land, good day, sir," Emory replied, his voice even. He switched the wireless frequency and glanced at Mason, "This is pure vanilla. They don't have any idea."

Mason shook his head, smiling as he casually lined up the Raptor with the yawning expanse of Scorpion's massive hanger bay, "Garrett, I have to say this is quite possibly the most brilliant thing you've ever done."

"Playing to my vanity, shame on you," Emory smirked as he slowed the Raptor down.

_"Raptor Three-Niner-Six, Scorpion paddles, you're at three klicks, checkers are red, call the ball."_

"Roger, paddles, three-niner-six has the ball," Mason replied in a tone equally as cool as Emory's had been. He guided the Raptor down the sprawling runway - easily five klicks long. The ground crew had done them the service of illuminating an elevator for them, along with a ground guide standing on it, waving lighted sticks. Mason brought the Raptor in smoothly, touching it down with a barely audible "thump." Most of it was done by feel, as the artificial smoke that Emory had skillfully generated had filled most of the cockpit, obscuring most of their vision.

The elevator brought them down into the pressurized atmosphere of the shockingly huge hanger deck. A tow vehicle hooked up to the front of their craft and brought them to a berth. Mason could see the flashing red lights of the crash/rescue team outside of the Raptor, along with a fairly sizable crowd of knuckle-draggers.

"Time for more theatrics, then," Emory nodded to Mason. They stood up and ventured to the rear door, adjusting their helmets. They turned the back-lights off, as a precaution. They also removed the Battlestar _Cathedral_ patches on their shoulders, sticking them in their pockets.

Mason pressed the door open button. In dramatic fashion, a cloud of the artificial smoke billowed out of the Raptor and rolled across the deck. Nervous firefighters craned their necks and held their extinguishers tightly, looking for any sign of flames.

"Wooo!" Mason cried as he exited the craft, waving his arms about his face for effect. "Gods damn! I dunno what the frak happened in there, but it's a smoky son of a bitch!"

"Right, no fire in there, lads!" Emory called out, laying his Caprican accent on thick. He waved off the crowd of people who had gathered around. "No fire! Everything's fine, probably just a short or something! Where's the chief of the deck?"

Dejected firefighters rolled their eyes at each other and began to pick up their equipment. Knuckle-draggers who had nothing better to do except watch a Raptor burn up slowly turned and began returning to their posts, smirking and laughing.

A petty officer came strolling up to them, the sleeves rolled up on his orange jump suit. He flicked his cigarette before crushing it out on the heel of his boot, "Chief Petty Officer Price. Are you alright, sir? You should probably get to medical and get checked out, sir."

Mason looked around quickly, and then removed his helmet. "Mason. Good to meet you. We're fine, Chief, thank you for asking. We just really need to be on our way. I don't think it's anything major in there, honestly. If you could just have your people give it the once-over and fuel us up, we'll be on our way."

"Where ya headed?" the grizzled-looking CPO Price asked, peering into the Raptor and lighting another cigarette.

"Uh," Mason paused. "Tauron. To Hypathia. Picking people up, dropping people off, being a frakkin' public transport service anymore, let me tell you."

"Excellent use of our resources," Price laughed gruffly.

"So, uh, Price, you're Chief of the Deck around here?" Emory asked cautiously. He looked around, making sure that the people on the busy hanger deck had gone back to their business.

"Well, that's the rumor," Price said, picking up a floor panel and setting it aside, staring down at the tangled mess of piping, hoses, and wires below.

"Right, we need to know something-" Mason began.

_"Attention on deck - Attention on deck, Admiral on deck!"_

The young pilots glanced at each other, confused as to why a call to attention would be made over the paging system.

"Lieutenants! Come on!" Price hissed, stomping out his cigarette hurriedly and zipping up his jumpsuit. "It's the frakkin' Fleet Admiral!"

"Oh frak," Mason's face paled. He joined the rush of stampeding personnel to the side of the main causeway through the hanger deck, where they hastily formed a line and drew themselves to attention.

Fleet Admiral Schaeffer arrived on the deck without further ceremony, tailed by his staff and numerous other personnel.

"Gods damn it! As you were!" he roared as he stalked down the deck furiously. "Where the frak is my Raptor parked?!"

A staff member pointed seemingly directly at Mason, who's heart promptly skipped a few beats. He quickly ducked out of sight and vainly looked around for a place to vanish.

"Mason!" Emory hissed at him, his eyes wide with fear. "We're boned! It's over!"

"Be cool, ok? Just...act normal or something!" Mason breathed, quite unsure of what to do. Price had long since disappeared back inside their Raptor.

Mason glanced to his left, horrified to see the Raptor that was parked next to his bore a star cluster surrounding the Colonial Crest on the side of it. Along with obvious modifications in terms of armor plating and propulsion.

"Oh no," Mason whispered. "Oh hell no. No, no, no..."

The entourage of exquisitely dressed fleet personnel stomped their way over toward the parked Raptor. Mason stared at Emory, helpless.

Before Mason could formulate his next thought, the group arrived and began boarding the Raptor. With no other options, he and Emory quickly sprinted to the side of their Raptor and draw themselves to attention, saluting crisply.

The Admiral looked on impatiently as his staff filed into the Raptor. His attention was drawn sideways by the two young pilots who had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

His figure was imposing - a tall man, who appeared to be once powerfully built. At least six rows of medals and ribbons adorned his left breast. The ceremonial sword worn by command officers glinted mightily on his hip. He narrowed his piercing green eyes momentarily - deeply lined crow's feet appearing on either side of his face. He walked slowly over to them after a glance at the slow-going process of his staff loading into the Raptor. He returned the salute and extended a hand.

"What's your name, son?" he asked, his voice like gravel inside of a bass drum.

"Mason, sir," the young pilot answered, trying to keep his voice even. He took the Admiral's hand and shook it firmly.

"Where you from?" the Admiral asked informally.

"Tauron, sir," Mason replied, releasing the Admiral's hand. The highest ranking officer in the Colonial Fleet shifted his attention to Emory.

"Emory, sir," replied Mason's friend after being pressed the same question. "From Caprica."

The Admiral nodded, looking behind him again. Seemingly out of nowhere, a young woman appeared, dressed in the light blue jacket and dark blue pants of a Colonial Fleet Cadet. Her dark brown hair, worn down, swept her shoulder blades gently. She walked up to the Admiral casually, and stood beside him, instilling instant confusion in Mason and Emory. They, as Viper pilots and commissioned officers in the Colonial Fleet, were apprehensive at best to be speaking to the Fleet Admiral. What the frak was this cadet doing?

"Ah," the Admiral sighed heavily. "Lieutenants, my daughter, Cassie."

Mason's eyes locked onto hers. She had the same brilliant green eyes of her father, but her features were markedly different. They were, for lack of a better word, flawless. She looked into Mason's eyes for a prolonged period. The young man quickly forgot how to breathe, along with his own name and where he was.

_She's...gorgeous!_

Emory had managed to clear his throat and nod, "Ma'am."

Mason snapped out of his trance and did likewise, "Ma'am."

She rolled her eyes, sighing. In accordance with proper procedure, she drew herself to attention first, saluting the two young Lieutenants, "Sir. Cadet Cassie Schaeffer."

Mason returned the salute - clearly over-enthusiastically. Emory made a small noise to his left.

The Fleet Admiral laughed slightly at the sight. Who was senior? The Admiral's daughter, who happened to be a Cadet, or the young Lieutenants, who happened to be senior to the Cadet?

"Shall we, Cassie?" he gestured to the Raptor.

"Yes, sir," she replied, coolly. She kept her gaze locked on Mason, who in turn was rooted to the spot and rendered motionless and speechless. She climbed aboard the Raptor, but not without a parting smile at the Lieutenant.

The Fleet Admiral picked up on it, glancing from his daughter to Mason, and shaking his head.

The Raptor was hooked to a tow vehicle and quickly shuttled away. Mason blinked stupidly, shaking his head.

"Well, Scott, you officially win idiot of the frakking year," Emory hissed at him. "We come here to maintain a low profile, steal a triple-nuclear warhead payload, and get out of here, and you have to go flirt with the _Fleet Admiral's Daughter!_"

"I..." he said, his head swimming. "I mean, did you _see_ her?"

"Yes, she's stunning, but that's beside the point!"

"Wow," Mason said dreamily, his mind wandering.

"Focus!" Emory slapped him on the side of the head. "We've got things to do!"

He reluctantly forced the thought of the Cadet out of his mind.

"Ok," he turned to Emory. "We have to find that payload next."

"Chances are it's around here somewhere," Emory agreed. "The word to scrub the mission probably hasn't gotten down here yet."

"Which means it's probably standing by to be loaded, probably under heavy guard on the hanger deck," Mason muttered. "And probably inaccessible..."

"Naturally," Emory muttered, rubbing his forehead.

Mason paused a moment, before glancing up quickly at Emory.

"I have an idea."

* * *

"Price?" Mason asked, poking his head inside the Raptor.

"Yes, sir!" Price called back to him. He was buried headfirst into the floor paneling of the Raptor.

"We're gonna grab some coffee quick, we'll be back," the pilot said, looking down at the bent form of the Chief Petty Officer.

"Sounds good, sir!" was the muffled reply.

Mason and Emory quickly stalked down the hanger deck, trying to act casual as they searched quickly for the ordinance storage.

"I'm sure word is making its way around the fleet," Mason remarked quietly. "We won't be able to stay for long."

"Right," Emory nodded. They approached a cavernous storage area - dodging forklifts that were making their way in and out of the doorway. The stenciling above left little doubt as to the room's function - "ORDINANCE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY"

The pair slowly wandered to the doorway, risking a glance inside.

"And there it is," Mason whispered, nodding his head toward a cube resting on a pallet just inside the door. It was nondescript, excepting the guard of four armed Fleet Marines.

"Easy day, then. Four armed Marines and a massive crate," Emory nodded. "I trust you have a plan for this, too?"

"I think so," Mason said quietly. "Come on, we need to get to Laundry."

"Laundry?"

* * *

Mason took off the top portion of his flight suit, wrapping it around his waist and tying it off with the sleeves. He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, adding a slight volume to it. He took a deep breath, and invoked the best "devil-may-care" attitude he could.

"Excuse me," Mason said, offering a cocky smirk as he leaned on the reception desk to the Laundry Intake. A young Airman's Mate looked up from her book with a surprised expression.

"Yes, sir?" she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was moderately attractive, but a girl that Mason may not have noticed on any given night at The Charging Bull. He quickly got over himself.

"I - uh, this is kind of an odd question," he laughed slightly, leaning in and smiling, locking his eyes on hers. "But I seem to have gotten lost here. I'm looking for Personnel, and someone said it was near here."

"Uh," the young enlisted woman, a girl of perhaps nineteen, stammered. "It's, um, kinda close to here, um, sir, and..."

Mason's eyes didn't leave hers. He pretended to hang on every word she said. However, out of his peripheral, he saw a flash of dark green flight suit enter quietly though a side door. His smirk widened slightly.

"...and then a left, sir, and then it'll be on your right hand side," she said, smiling shyly.

"Really? That simple?" he smiled, feigning disbelief. "Wow, I'm an idiot. I can't even navigate the shipyards. Thank the gods for you, though."

"Oh," the young lady said. "I know, it can get confusing here. It's such a big station."

"Right?" Mason's eyebrows shot up to somewhere near his hairline. "I mean, you're probably an old pro at getting around here..."

_Hurry the frak up, Emory!_

"Well, not really," she giggled slightly. "I know how to get to the basic areas, but there's so many other places I haven't gone..."

"Really?" Mason asked, leaning in again. "I trust you get out sometimes, though. Surely you don't work all the time..."

"Well, uh," she exhaled a nervous laughter.

Mason's peripheral caught the side door opening and closing quietly again.

"Hmm," he hummed, smiling and narrowing his eyes at her. "Well, thank you again, for your help. I'd best get going."

"Yes, sir," she smiled, blushing. "Have a good day, sir."

"I will," he smirked over his shoulder as he casually walked away.

"Sir!" she called. Mason turned.

"Sir, Fleet Personnel is that way," she pointed in the opposite direction of Mason's direction of travel.

"Of course," he laughed, putting on his best sheepish face. He walked slowly off in the correct direction.

* * *

"What the frak took you?!" Emory whispered harshly. Mason quickly closed the door to the maintenance access hatch behind him.

"I came as quick as I could!" he hissed in return. "What'd you get?"

"Just these," his wingman produced two dark blue duty uniforms. One bore the insignia of a Major, the other a Lieutenant Colonel.

"Ok," Mason said, reaching for the Lieutenant Colonel uniform at the same time as Emory.

Garrett looked at him, "Why do _you_ get to be the Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Well, frak, I dunno, you be the Colonel, then!" Mason looked at the ceiling, sighing.

"Nope. It's fine. I'll be the Major," Emory said, in mock sarcasm.

"Just frakking put it on!" Mason muttered, pulling off his flight suit and donning the uniform.

"Definitely the first and last time I'll wear a uniform with any rank on it," Emory remarked sardonically.

"We'd best enjoy this, then," Mason agreed, strapping his sidearm to his outer right leg. He straightened the Major's insignia on his collar and quickly looked around.

"You look _way_ too young to be a Major," Emory remarked.

"Here," Mason ran a hand along the piping above their heads. It came away full of dust. He ran it through his hair quickly, forcing the normally messy look into something a little more conserved, now with an added touch of gray.

"Now it just looks like you're a middle-aged guy in the middle of a personality crisis," his friend held in his laughter.

"Whatever. It'll have to work," he muttered. "We're out of time."

* * *

"And I'm telling you, this is completely objectionable, sir," Mason deliberately raised his voice, allowing it to carry down the hanger deck.

"You're out of line, Major!" Emory barked in return, glaring at him as they strode down the deck. Salutes offered by enlisted personnel and junior officers were ignored as they carried on the heated argument.

"Sir, with respect, I find this to be in direct violation of general order seven, along with several edicts and precedents already established. For gods sake, sir, think if the implications!" Mason yelled back at Emory - stepping deliberately in front of him, stopping their walk in front of the ordinance bay.

Emory sold it perfectly - glaring daggers at Mason before nodding his head in the direction of the cavernous bay. They strode quickly, hoping to sell an agitated nature. Thankfully, it appeared that the Marines guarding the package had taken notice.

"Gentlemen," Mason nodded to the Marines. "Give us the area for a moment."

"Sir," a young lance corporal spoke. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're under orders not to abandon this post at all-"

"Listen, Corporal," Mason growled. "I wasn't asking."

The young man paled slightly, "I'm sorry sir, but my commanding officer-"

"You can tell your commanding officer to frak off, and you can either take a walk right now, or take a walk out of the Fleet for disobeying a direct order, am I clear, Corporal?" Mason tried his hardest to put on an intimidating face. He had never barked orders like that before - to anyone.

The young man was clearly torn. He looked around to the rest of his squad - who were of no help to him.

"Listen, son," Emory stepped forward, the Lieutenant Colonel insignia reflecting brightly in the dim lighting. "We really do not have time to go through this. I believe we can be trusted to keep an eye on this...thing, whatever it is, while you guys take a break. Sound reasonable?"

The Lance Corporal sighed, and nodded, looking at the floor, "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Quite alright. The area, if you please," Emory said, firmly.

The Marines filed away quickly, anxious to get away from the two high-ranking officers. The two held their character for a moment or two longer, lingering over the hulking package.

"Well, that was easier than I thought it'd be," Emory sighed, his shoulders sagging in relief.

Mason could literally feel his pulse resounding in his head, "Yes...excellent. Now, we need a lift."

Emory looked around, trying to hide his urgency.

"Aha! There you are, Lieutenant -"

_Oh shit._

Mason turned around, seeing Price walking toward him, wiping grease off of his hands.

"Damnedest thing, sir, not a thing is wrong with your Raptor - I can't ev- wait..." he said, stopping short. "A - Major? What?"

"Price," Mason said slowly. "I need you to do something for me, and it's critical that it gets done right now, with no problems, ok?"

The Chief Petty Officer had been in the fleet long enough to know better, "who the hell are you guys?"

"Chief, I need this package loaded to our Raptor, right now, no questions asked, please," Mason asked politely. Emory had stopped short, his face slowly melting away into the horrific realization that they had been found.

"Sir, whoever you are, there's no way I-"

"Chief, I'm ordering you directly to load this ordinance to the Raptor," Mason said again, his voice forceful.

"There's no frakkin' way-"

In an instant, Mason had stepped very close to Price, "Now you're being given your last chance by a man with a gun, Chief. Load the package."

Price looked down slowly, his temperament changing instantly as Mason pressed the barrel of his sidearm into the senior enlisted man's stomach.

"I can't explain everything right now, Price, but let me assure you, if this doesn't get done, we may never get a chance like this again to turn the tide of the war. Please, I'm begging you," Mason whispered, lowering the gun. "Load it up."

Price wavered on the spot momentarily, "Okay. Fine. You're frakking crazy. And I'm reporting your ass, whoever you are."

"Right, that's fine," Mason nodded. "I fully expect you to."

Price shook his head and commandeered a forklift in short order. He quickly picked the cargo up and took off towards the Raptor. Mason and Emory jogged behind.

"Scott, are you _out of your mind_?!" Emory asked, appalled. "You just _pulled a gun_ on a Fleet member!"

"Right, tell me about it again some other time," Mason shook his head. He had no intentions of harming any Fleet members - which is why he was thankful that Price had folded. Had he held his ground, Mason wasn't sure what his next move would have been.

"This is out of control," Emory muttered as they arrived at their Raptor.

_"Attention in the station - attention in the station! All hands be advised - Raptor Number Eight-Eight-Six has been reported stolen from the Battlestar _Cathedral_ and is possibly enroute to the Yards as we speak. Any unauthorized landings in the yard are to be reported immediately. That is all."_

"Well, the secret's out," Mason sighed.

"Only a matter of time," Emory nodded.

They watched as Price dropped the package into the side door of the Raptor. The whole works nearly took up the entire cabin space. The Chief Petty Officer glanced down at Mason, who's hand rested on his holstered sidearm. He shook his head, and backed the lift away.

"Alright, fine, there you go. I don't suppose that this is the infamous Raptor Eight-Eight-Six, is it?" Price asked, his voice icy.

"It is. But it doesn't appear like that to the people who keep track of such things," Mason admitted. "Thank you for your help, Chief."

"Don't thank me," the Chief spat. "I may have just aided in treason."

"I assure you, you didn't," Mason sighed as he backed up the wing of the Raptor slowly, his hand still resting on his sidearm. "You won't have to worry about what you did. Where we're going - we're not coming back. So as far as you're concerned, we're just a figment of your imagination."

Price folded his arms and frowned. Mason stood in the doorway, his eyes sympathetic.

"Ready, Scott?" Emory called from the front.

"Yeah, let's go," he replied, still watching Price. The enlisted man remained on the spot, watching him intently.

The Raptor hummed to life, and the door began to close. Mason bolted for the front seat, loosening the stolen uniform. Through the windscreen, he saw Price sprint to the nearest phone. Alarms followed shortly thereafter.

"Well, I don't blame the guy," Mason said, matter-of-factually.

"Of course not," Emory agreed. "But let's leave before we really frak everything up for the day, eh?"

"Agreed," nodded Mason. He quickly fired the retro-thrusters, blasting the Raptor off the hanger deck with a distinct lack of subtlety.

Five-hundred kilogram tool chests scattered around the deck as Mason brought the Raptor quickly about and up through the bay. The scene was utter chaos as personnel dove for cover. Orders were blaring over the loudspeakers - unheard by most of the hanger deck, drowned out by the engines on the hovering Raptor.

"Elevator, come on," Mason pleaded, looking for an opening

"There!" Emory pointed to an opening to the flight deck above. Mason pointed the Raptor straight for it.

"Frak, the airlock is still sealed!" Mason's mind raced for options. "Frak it."

He spun the Raptor on its axis and pointed the nose toward the meter-thick blast doors holding the pressurization of the hanger deck in. He pushed the throttle forward, pushing bluish white tyllium flame out of the two cylindrical engines.

Emory shook his head, and activated the weapons. Without a second thought, the co-pilot loosed a spray of forty millimeter bullets, ripping a hole in the deck above them. More importantly, though, was the rapid decompression sensed in the hanger bay. The blast door slammed shut behind them, and the ceiling gave way to the flight deck.

Mason laid into the throttle, launching the Raptor out of the elevator hole with force. They cleared the deck and came about sharpish, making a run for the exit.

_"Colonial Raptor, Colonial Raptor, this is Scorpion Control, respond on Fleet Com!"_

"Why do they always got to be so emotional about this shit?" Mason asked himself. Emory failed to hide his laughter.

"Scorpion Control, this is Raptor...aw, screw it, this is Raptor Eight-Eight-Six of the _Cathedral_, callsign Mason, go ahead, sir."

_"Eight-Eight-Six, Mason, you are hereby ordered to cease any further travel and prepare your craft to be boarded. Acknowledge."_

"Control, Mason, I acknowledge but will not comply, sir," Mason said coolly, stripping off the blue uniform jacket and tossing it aside.

_"Mason, Control, be advised if you continue on present course you will be fired upon."_

"Control, Mason, be advised I do not intend to bring harm to any Colonial targets, please acknowledge," Mason said. He turned to Emory, "How's that jump coming?"

"I'm having trouble getting the coordinates locked for that particular section, Scott, give me a minute," Emory said, haggard.

"I think you know that we might not have a minute," Mason replied.

"Just give me a frakkin' minute!"

_"Mason, Control, we acknowledge your intentions - you are ordered to cease and prepare to be boarded."_

The dradis beeped shrilly. Emory glanced over hurriedly, "Here they come - five Vipers, CBDR!"

Mason wheeled around, seeing the swarm of fighters clearing the shipyards, "Tally five!"

Another shrill beeping - "Five more! Bearing on Zero-Eight-Seven, closing!"

"Got 'em," Mason said, looking up and to his left, seeing the shipyard's CAP make an abrubt turn. "We're not going to be able to outrun Vipers, Garrett!"

"I know!" Emory said, frantically punching numbers into the FTL computer. "We're jumping to an asteroid field next to the gods damn Osceolla Nebula, Scott! You know that's a hard on a good day!"

"Hang on, then," Mason said, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head. Emory ratcheted his shoulder straps down. Mason snap rolled the Raptor and dove, leading the pursuit back down through the workings of the shipyards.

Mason was disgusted by the sluggish response of the Raptor - he needed a faster-reacting bird. He kept the throttle pinned as he weaved in and out of the massive buttresses connecting the yards to the docked ships.

_"Raptor Eight-Eight-Six this is Scorpion Actual - knock this shit off, son!"_

"We need to jump, Emory!"

Emory didn't reply - his focus entirely forward to plotting coordinates. Seconds that felt like minutes passed.

"Got it! Jump!"

Mason cranked the FTL key over with force, and quite abruptly, in place of the chaos, there was only silence.


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Mason blinked, his eyes instantly over to the side, examining the dradis readout.

Emory had planned the jump perfectly. Raptor Eight-Eight-Six floated aimlessly less than a kilometer from an asteroid easily ten times its size. And that was one of the small ones. As a backdrop to the massive field, the Osceollan Nebula glowed with an infinite pallete of blues, greens, and violets - entrancing almost anyone who looked at it.

"Well the radiation is playing hell, along with those frakkin' rocks," Emory muttered, leering at the dradis.

The pilots both sat in silence momentarily, each considering their present implication. One Raptor, barely armed, in the middle of Cylon space. Alone.

Mason chanced a look over at Emory and instantly felt a pang of guilt. His friend of about five years, now sitting across from him, holding his forehead in his hand. He riddled himself for being so impulsive on an assignment that was clearly suicide. How could he be so brash? So impulsive as to not to think of his friends; not to mention his family?

Emory sat silently, hopelessly examining the dradis. He pulled out the can of milled fumella leaves and placed a pinch under his lip. He glanced at Mason, holding the can up.

The young Lieutenant nodded, repeating the motion that Emory had just done. The leaves tasted bitter under his lip, but yet somewhat aromatic and earthy - reminding him of summers on Tauron spent in the forests and by the lake, enjoying the simple pleasures that nature had to offer.

"Garrett, I...I feel as though I need to apologize to you," Mason said after a moment.

"Why?" Emory asked, looking across the flight instruments at his friend.

"This is stupid. We're in the middle of Cylon space, strapped to three nukes, looking for a fight. Wire was right. There's no reason for us to be here," Mason sighed, his eyes distant through the windscreen.

Emory was silent a moment, considering his words. His voice was even as he replied, "Perhaps. But I could have just as easily stayed behind. I came along because I think there's a real chance you're on to something, Scott. I think you're right, for whatever reason. And that's reason enough to be here."

His words fell with grace through the small cabin. Secretly, Mason would never let on how much they meant to him. In all honesty, however, he held the words close to his heart. The opinions and orders of the rest of the entire Colonial Fleet made no difference to him. The support he found in his closest friend, however, made the facts of their predicament bearable enough to be viewed as an almost optimistic situation.

It was a fact about Mason he almost did not know about himself, for he repressed it so much. The opinions of his friends and the support of those around him were critical to the successes he had thus far accomplished - and to the projected accomplishments he wished to achieve. He drew his energy and support from those around him. He felt emboldened, courageous, and brilliant when he saw the smiles of his friends. And in their absence, he felt disparaging, cold, and alone.

"Thanks," he said, simply. His mind switched back to a tactical frame momentarily. "So, I'm thinking we can use thrusters and limited burns to get through this field until we find the Cylons. From there, I think we can find an asteroid to set up shop on. We'll launch from there. If we hit them right, the rest of the fleet will probably scatter, allowing a Colonial pickup for us within the forty-eight hour window. Maybe."

Emory sighed, nodding and smiling sadly, "Maybe so. I like it. Let's go toaster hunting."

Mason nodded, setting his jaw firmly. He torched off the thrusters slightly, guiding the Raptor slowly and softly around the massive asteroid field.

"Sector Twelve," Emory remarked, examining the navigational chart. "The sector of sectors. At least that's no surprise. Where better to have a Cylon party than deep in Cylon territory?"

"At least they're consistent," Mason nodded.

Emory took off his helmet and pressurization collar around his suit, taking a deep breath of recycled cabin air. Mason did likewise as Emory flew momentarily.

"Y'know, I heard a rumor about this sector once," said Emory as he stared out of the bubble-shaped canopy.

"What's that?" Mason asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That awhile back, there was a top-secret Fleet that was stationed deep out here. Made up of ships that were supposedly destroyed or something. Like the _Valkyrie_, the _Osiris_, the _Loki_...you know. Not just a bunch of transports, but Colonial capital ships," the co-pilot smiled at the absurdity of the statement.

"Why the frak would the admiralty want to keep a fleet of capital ships hidden deep in Cylon space?" Mason shook his head. "If the Cylons found out...it'd be game over."

Emory shrugged, "I don't know. Like I said, this was awhile back, anyway. Back when we were in the war college. It was a rumor at best. Some idiot got a little drunk and started flapping his jaw. Besides, if there was any weight to it, that fleet would probably be long gone by now. Probably blown to frak. In all reality this time."

"Hanging out in Cylon space for the duration of a tour just doesn't sound like a good time to me," Mason nodded, giving short bursts on the maneuvering thrusters. The Raptor edged further into the field, its path slow and graceful.

Emory ducked into the rear momentarily. He returned holding two ration packs and two canteens of water. Mason paused, realizing it had been over a dozen hours since they had last eaten.

He gently pointed the nose of the Raptor at a section of wide-open space and fired the engines for five seconds, giving the Raptor a boost of speed. Mason released the controls and allowed the craft to drift. He sat back in his seat and put his boots up on the console, relaxing for what felt like the first time in years.

Emory paused midway through a mouthful of food. He considered something momentarily, as though struggling with a decision. He then reached into the shoulder pocket on his flight suit and pulled out a small picture, wedging the side and top of it into the frame around the dradis readout.

Mason stopped chewing, looking at the picture. Then, the biggest self-satisfied smirk in human recorded history spread across his face.

"I _knew_ it!" he said, his mouth full of food.

"Ok, ok," Emory sighed, crashing his head back on the seat's headrest and rolling his eyes out to empty space. "You're right. You win. Congratulations."

Mason smiled, looking at the picture. It showed a stunningly beautiful woman with flowing auburn hair and bright, light blue eyes. Her smile was radiant - creating the illusion of light within the small cabin of the Raptor.

"I don't need any congratulations," Mason said, in all seriousness. "I think _you're_ the one who deserves congratulations."

"Well, maybe I did," Emory said, looking at the picture. His visage softened noticeably as his thoughts drifted to those of the woman in the picture. "Seeing as we're probably not going to make it back, though..."

Mason looked down at his boots, feeling instantly terrible.

"It probably wouldn't have worked for long anyway," continued Emory. "I mean, it's not like we get back to Tauron all that often. And the chances of _both _of us surviving this war...I mean, let's be real here."

His friend's gaze remained locked on his boots. Mason took a deep breath before gently setting his ration pack down by the throttle.

"What?" Emory asked, looking at Mason with a confused expression.

"We've got enough fuel to get us back to the Scorpion Yards," Mason said, quietly. "Help me plot the jump."

"And just like that, this is over?"

"Yeah, just like that."

Emory shook his head, "You've got to be kidding me. We hijacked a Colonial Raptor, escaped a fully loaded Battlestar, snuck into the biggest military installation outside of Picon fleet headquarters, stole not one, but _three_ nuclear warheads and a _metric ton_ of high explosives - blasted our way out of the place, and jumped deep into Cylon space in order to facilitate what is possibly the biggest guerrilla attack on the Cylons _to date_, and you just want to _give up_?"

Mason swallowed, "Yeah. We did all that. But it isn't worth it. I'm not going to die knowing that I took you away from the possibility of a normal life after this is all over. I won't do it."

"Frak off, Scott," Emory shook his head. "That isn't you. That isn't me. You know that. You knew what you were getting into - despite the brashness of your decision making. And I knew what I was getting into. I'm not going back - and neither are you."

"I'm just getting my head around this," Mason replied. "I mean. This is it. We're probably not going back. You don't deserve that, Garrett. You've got more going for you than I do. You need to survive."

"And you don't?" Emory's reply contained a rare flash of emotion. He looked at Mason, outraged. "Your modesty is your downfall, Scott. The way you fly - how deadly you are to the enemy - it's - it's something that we need. And by 'we' I mean all of us. There's going to come a day when you're going to save many lives with the way you operate. If anyone needs to survive this, it's you."

Mason smirked, pointing at the picture wedged into the dradis readout. "I think she would disagree."

"Well, possibly," Emory relented, laughing a little.

The twenty-three year old Scott Mason sighed, frustrated by the futility of the argument. He also marveled at the character of his wingman seated next to him. Many other pilots - good pilots - in the fleet would have wholeheartedly agreed with the decision to retire and return back. But not Emory.

"Besides," the co-pilot remarked. "I think our fate is better out here rather than returning back. I mean, dishonerable discharge is the least of our worries now..."

Mason opened his mouth again to apologize.

"Scott. Stop apologizing," Emory sighed. "Have you even given consideration to what would happen if this actually _works?_"

"Well," Mason said, glancing out at the space in front of him, seeing nothing but rocks and the sprawling nebula. "Yes. I mean, to take down a Basestar of this importance...that's huge. And if we can get back with the intel on the number of Basestars and support ships that we see, they can compare that with other intelligence in order to get a more accurate picture of what's going on with the Cylons. It very well may-"

"-win the war," Emory smiled confidently, nodding. "So let's just stop worrying about it, find these frakkin' toasters, blow them to frak, and go home, okay?"

Mason was quiet for a prolonged moment before nodding slowly.

"Besides," Emory said, taking another massive bite of whatever it was they put into field rations. "What's the story with you and that whatsherface Marine?"

"There isn't much of a story," Mason adjusted the course of the Raptor slightly before diving back into his own ration. "I mean, nothing's happening."

"_Nothing_?" Emory asked, apalled. "Scott, please, I think she _kind of_ likes you."

"Right, well..."

"Don't 'well' me," the sandy-haired co-pilot pointed a fork in Mason's direction. "This always happens. Again with your modesty! When will you finally admit to yourself that you are, in fact, an elligable bachelor? And that maybe you could focus on something other than flying for a little bit?"

"Flying's not the only thing I focus on!" Mason snorted. "I focus on other things!"

"Like what?"

"...things!"

"Right."

"Shut up."

It was Emory's turn to wear a self-satisfied smirk. Mason shook his head, scowling.

"How many times, Scott, do we have to go through this?" Emory asked, tweaking the range on the dradis. "It's all about your attitude towards this. You could get a really fantastic girl if you-"

_Beep beep._

"Dradis contact," Emory snapped into business mode faster than a Viper rolling a hard six. "Unknown transponder, running now. Bearing zero-one-seven, range ten-five, carem three-seven-seven, and holding."

"I'll slow us down easy," Mason said quietly, quickly dropping his per-packaged meal and easing the forward momentum of the Raptor.

"Transponder doesn't register...now more contacts...spread around the first," Emory whispered.

"Garrett, look," Mason muttered, his eyes upward and to the right.

"My gods," Emory breathed.

Floating in no particular formation were the forms of no less than nine Basestars. The bluish green light from the nebula refracted off the hulls of the massive capital ships - creating a dazzling show. Patrolling slowly around the Basestars were literally hundreds of Raiders with no set course.

"Wow," Mason shook his head, struck by the sight. "This has got to be half the Cylon fleet."

"Indeed," agreed Emory. "Now. The real question. How do we get close?"

"I think I have an idea," Mason said, a smirk forming.

* * *

"A complete shut-down," Mason said. "The Cylons detect us based upon radio signals, transponders, electronics, and whatever else. We get on course with the command ship, fire the engines, and then kill everything. To them, we'll look like a floating piece of junk."

"A floating piece of junk that looks exactly like a Colonial Raptor, you idiot," said Emory. "It'll work great until we get in close. Then we're frakked."

"So we get in close, then make a hard line for the command ship," Mason rebutted. "Activate the weapons, and blow it when we get close."

"Which doesn't leave an option for escape."

"Well, no," Mason paused, perplexed. He instantly brightened. "Wait. Do we still have those close-dock tow cables?"

"Of course," Emory nodded. Mason was referring to the close-quarters docking cable guns carried by every Raptor. They were fired like mooring lines in tight spaces to help Raptors dock. They worked like a fishing reel - just the size and weight of an over sized rifle.

"So we fly _into _the hanger bay of the command ship-"

"-you're insane-"

"-latch _on to_ a Raider, and ride out of there before the package detonates - detach in space and activate the beacons."

Emory wore an expression that read both amazement and disgust. "And _that's_ the plan?"

"You got a better idea?"

Emory was silent a moment, "No. Not exactly."

"We can't just set an autopilot and punch out - they'd pick up on it...we can't set a glide path and punch out, either. You're right, they'd pick up on the Raptor's shape if nothing else. I'm not seeing many options except to fly right on in there and flip the switch," Mason sighed.

"You're right," relented Emory. "I don't like it. But you're right."

"I never said I liked it, either."

Mason glanced over and shrugged. Emory shook his head.

"Best drink some water, then," he said, nonchalantly. "It may be awhile before we're picked up."

"Right," Mason nodded, uncapping his canteen.

* * *

"So best I can surmise, the command vessel is, of course, the central one," Emory pointed at the central part of the formation. "It has the most traffic going in and out of it in terms of Raiders. Passive scans also show the most activity from that Basestar in terms of wireless and other signals."

"We can sneak behind this big bastard here," Mason nodded towards a sizable asteroid hovering around the inner perimeter of the formation. "And go from there."

"Okay," Emory nodded, latching the silver pressurization collar around his flight suit. "Here goes, then, eh?"

"I suppose," Mason nodded, putting his helmet on. "Okay...course look good?"

"Looks good. Let's give it a shot."

"Okay, three...two...one," Mason counted down as the Raptor's nose came in line with the aforementioned asteroid. He and Emory opened up the throttles wide.

The Raptor surged forward, headlong into the outer perimeter of the widespread Raider patrols.

"Okay, full shutdown," Emory began quickly shutting down the systems on the craft. "Weapons...engines...dradis...FTL...transponder...oh, frak, come on..."

"What?" Mason wheeled around.

"Error in safe shutdown of the transponder - it's going into protection on mode...oooooh, frak," Emory's hands flew over the controls, attempting to override.

"Come on, Garrett," Mason pleaded quietly, eying a full squadron of Raiders that were flying in their general direction. Quite suddenly, the squadron hit their engines in machine-perfect unison, making a blinding turn _straight_ for their Raptor.

"They made us!"

"Frak it," Emory turned quickly in his seat, un-holstering his sidearm. He reached over his right shoulder with the weapon, and loosed a devastating burst of fire towards the bulkhead of the Raptor.

"Kill the life support!" he bellowed.

Mason quickly disengaged the life support - effectively ending any sort of automated process aboard the small ship. He quickly turned, looking wildly out the window at the approaching squadron.

Just as quickly as they had changed course to intercept the Raptor, they disengaged, returning to their normal patrol route in a slow, but efficient, arc. Raptor Eight-Eight-Six was now, effectively, dead in the water. Carried only by momentum, their course carried them past the outer perimeter of the Raider patrols - and into the formation.

"Wow," Mason breathed slowly. "It worked."

Emory, with his hand shaking, slowly holstered his sidearm, glancing back at the smoking holes in the bulkhead, "Thank the gods..."

"Nice shooting," Mason examined his wingman's handiwork. The bullet holes were literally centimeters from the outer edges of the ordinance package. He knew that rounds from a sidearm wouldn't detonate the nuclear payload...however, the same couldn't be said for the high explosives surrounding it.

"Ah, yes," Emory sighed, smiling almost sheepishly. "Kind of ran out of time there."

Mason smirked as he pulled out a small, cylindrical object from his flight suit. He uncapped it and pulled out the contents. It was a strip of materiel perhaps five centimeters in length - its color white.

"We've got a little bit of time until we need to switch over to self-contained," Mason remarked, placing the cylinder on the darkened dradis console. Both men watched the materiel warily - watching for the color change from white to black. The material was designed to fade to black when toxic atmospheres were detected. The young pilots knew that as they breathed the remaining atmosphere in the cabin, they would eventually foul the air. Recycling the atmosphere would mean re-activating part of the processing system, and drawing the wrath of the Cylon armada down upon them. So there was nothing to do except sit, wait, and breathe.

Mason's pulse slowly returned to the low hundreds as he took several deep breaths. His eyes were wide as literally dozens of Raider squadrons flew around his Raptor - paying no mind to the floating hunk of metal drifting through their airspace. It was unnerving, to say the least.

"We're quite literally the sheep among the wolves," Emory said quietly, contemplating the massed armada around them.

"No kidding," Mason agreed. "Say...how many confirmed kills you got now? It's four isn't it?"

"Right," his wingman nodded. "The same as you."

"So," mused the young pilot. "D'you think if we take down a Basestar, it'll count as one? Or maybe one for the both of us?"

Emory cracked into laughter, "I think it'll count as one for each of us. We'll die aces."

"Nice," Mason smiled, failing to contain his own laughter.

* * *

_Battlestar _Cathedral - _CIC_ _- Raptor 886 +14 hours AWOL  
_

"Sir," the communications officer spoke in the direction of Weissbach.

"Hmph?" the Commander grunted, shifting his tired eyes over.

"It's Admiral Schaeffer," the young warrant officer's voice shook slightly.

"Great," Weissbach growled. "My office."

_"James,"_ the deep voice on the other end of the line said. Weissbach pressed the heavy black phone to his ear as he sank into his chair.

"Admiral," Weissbach relented.

_"Am I correct in this understanding - one of your Raptors is missing?"_

"That's correct, sir." The commander knew better than to try and cover anything up from his boss's boss's boss.

_"And that they jumped to the Scorpion Yards, grabbed the payload that was designed for Operation Harvest Moon - and then jumped deep into Cylon space?"_

"Well, sir, I wasn't on Scorpion for myself, so the last part I cannot confirm, but that is what I'm told," Weissbach correctly reported.

A deep sigh answered him, _"Don't worry, James, I was. Those boys literally parked that stolen Raptor next to mine. Gods above. Never mind that the combined efforts of the Colonial Fleet couldn't stop them, but now they're actually going to give Harvest a shot. It's a suicide mission. I never liked it to begin with."_

"Yes, sir."

_"And what if they discover the fleet that's out there? What if they come back and tell everyone that the _Valkyrie_ and the _Osiris_ and all those other gods damned frakking mental people are out there, too? This is a huge mess, James."_

"Agreed, sir," Weissbach sighed like the old man he was. "I must say, though, sir, that _if_ they somehow survive, and _if_ they see anything, then I think they'll have the presence of mind to keep quiet about what they saw out there. They're not stupid, sir. They did get away from me and my ship."

_"And me and my entire frakking fleet at Scorpion. I hope you're right about this, James. Gods be with those boys. If they can do it...it'll be the biggest break we've seen in ten years."_

Weissbach felt a slight pang of sympathy in his heart for the two pilots - both young enough to be his sons, "You know something, Alan...I think we're underestimating them. They may surprise us yet."

* * *

"So what's your plan once we get to that rock?" Emory asked.

Mason hesitated, "I - um - hang on..."

"You don't have a plan, do you?"

"No."

Emory smirked, "Well that rock is at about five clicks, and we're closing."

"Right," Mason nodded, racking his brain. "Right you are."

"Don't worry. I think this might work," Emory unstrapped himself. "But, it does mean that we'll have to vent the rest of our air."

"Collateral damage," Mason eyed the sizable asteroid, now four and a half kilometers away.

"I won't be able to fit around this payload again if I strap into the support pack," Emory remarked. "So I'll have to go around it and...well, frak, that won't work, I'll run out of air..."

"You're thinking of using the tow gun to get us close," Mason suddenly realized.

"Yes, but I need to be outside of the Raptor in order to fire the gun, Scott, and I can't get this frakking hulk of a survival pack around it to the door," Emory sighed.

"Hang on," Mason said, strapping his pack on. "Get your pack. We'll jettison the frakkin' windscreen, and you can go out and around the bird that way."

"Jettison the windscreen," Emory said. "But think of the radiation and not to mention the bullets that will be flying here in a few minutes..."

"Like it's going to be any better out there for you," Mason remarked with raised eyebrows.

"True enough," Emroy shrugged. "Hell. Let's do it. We're dead men flying anyway."

Mason smiled. He reached down into the duffel bag resting between the seats and pulled out a small camera. He quickly slid it into a mounting bracket on the side of his helmet, "Might as well record some good stuff for when they find our bodies."

"Right," Emory said, snapping his air supply hose in place and nodding.

The young pilot reached up with a gloved hand and pressed the tiny "record" button.

"Here goes," he said, standing slightly out of his seat and breaking open the manual windscreen release lever boxes. Emory did the same next to him.

"Three...two...one..."

They twisted the handles simultaneously. What was left of the atmospheric pressure in the cabin did the rest. The windscreen vented violently out into open space - tumbling away with speed. Whatever wasn't tied down inside the cabin also vented with speed.

Emory grabbed a tow cable gun from behind the seat and quickly unstrapped himself from the co-pilots chair. The large asteroid - now less than a klick away - absolutely dwarfed the Raptor.

"Okay," Emory said, grabbing the windscreen support post with one hand and gently swinging himself outside the Raptor - walking now in open space.

"For frak's sake, tie yourself down to something out there, ok?" Mason swore, craning his neck as he attempted to keep his eyes on Emory.

"I'm really glad you're here to tell me these things," Emory muttered as he carefully edged along the outer rail of the Raptor. He knelt down, attaching the harness of his suit to a tie-down anchor on the stubbed wing of the craft. He shouldered the towing gun, taking aim at the giant rock.

"Ok, half a klick," Mason whispered, realizing that he had failed to appreciate the sheer size of the rock. As it spun on its axis, Mason realized that an outcropping or some other piece of it could swing about and crush the Raptor with ease.

"And there's only five hundred meters in this rope...great design, guys," Emory sighed as the Raptor passed into the shadow of the rock. He took aim, taking his best guess at the distance.

"Garrett?"

"Just a little closer," breathed the young Caprican pilot. He spied his chance, and depressed the trigger gently.

The towing gun launched the hook with surprising force - propelled by a bottle of highly compressed air. Emory quickly jettisoned the empty bottle and attatched the gun to a bracket on the side of the Raptor designed for that purpose.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Mason whispered, watching the tow rope unspool wildly behind the hook.

The hook clanged violently against the surface of the asteroid, sending a small cloud of debris floating into space.

"Reeling in," Emory said quietly, activating the spool. The rope wound up before becoming instantly as taught as a guitar string, pulling the Raptor in to the surface.

"Excellent," Mason sighed with relief. "When this thing comes about again, we'll be in perfect launching position."

"Quite," Emory agreed.

The Raptor was guided gently on to the surface of the asteroid much like a fish that had given up protesting the fact it had been caught. Mason unclipped himself from his seat and gently floated out of the craft.

"I'll lower the skids manually," he said to Emory.

"Roger."

Mason crawled around the outside of the craft - a relatively easy task, despite his bulky profile with the survival pack strapped to his back. The zero-g environment allowed him to access the underside of the craft with little difficulty. He popped open the doors to the landing and arresting gear, and hand-cranked each skid into its downward and locked position.

"Ok, we're ready," he called to Emory.

"Coming in now!"

Mason vaguely recalled sitting in a lecture back in war college - something that was a feat unto itself, considering he had spent an inordinate amount of time in war college partaking in extra-curricular activity. In the lecture, the professor had said something about all bodies possessing mass in the universe generated a gravitational field. Now, the _amount_ of mass an object possessed dictated exactly _how much_ gravity it generated.

The pull of this particular interstellar body's field took effect on Mason, Emory, and the Raptor at the same time. It was a weak pull, but still present.

"Perfect," Emory whispered as the Raptor bumped down gently on the surface. He quickly retrieved the tow rope and hook.

Mason glanced under the craft, double-checking that the skids had found at least something to grip on to temporarily. He glanced up as Emory floated gently over to him.

"How's it look?"

"Good, for now," Mason reported, glancing out towards space. The scene slowly changed as the asteroid spun gently. "I'm thinking fifteen minutes, max, we'll be lined up and ready."

Emory nodded, glancing out at the expanse before them. Raider squadrons cruised by silently, as no sound transferred in the depths of space.

"I will say this," Mason remarked. "This is going to be one hell of a video..."

* * *

_Picon Fleet Headquarters - Raptor 886 +17 hours AWOL_

A furious knocking resounded from the heavy solid-core wooden door to Fleet Admiral Schaeffer's office. The Admiral glanced up, sighing, "Yes?"

"Sir!" a Major - Schaeffer chastised himself for not remembering the guy's name - rushed in with a briefing packet. "Sir, just in from satellites outside Sector Twelve."

Schaeffer took the packet from the Major, his brow furrowed. The attitude around headquarters, even in somewhat dire times, had always been one of quiet professionalism. To see this officer worked up concerned the Admiral slightly.

"What am I looking at?" Schaeffer asked as he opened the packet and began leafing through it.

"Sir, approximately eighteen hours ago, several more Basestars jumped into Section Twelve, bringing the total to nine. One hour ago, reports began coming in of Basestars suddenly abandoning known sectors. The _Universal_ reported that she was engaged with one in Sector Nine when it suddenly cut and ran - didn't even recover her Raiders. Same reports elsewhere. It's like they're gone, sir."

Schaeffer's hand, holding the satellite images, began to shake slightly.

"Get me emergency message priority to all Colonial Ships."

* * *

Mason sat with Emory in front of their Viper - leaning their backs against the nose of the resting craft.

"Should almost be time," Emory remarked, glancing over at Mason.

Mason nodded, opening his mouth to speak. In the same instant, a masive flash of light dazzled the eyes of the two young men.

"My gods," Mason whispered.

A basestar had jumped in literally kilometers from where they sat on the asteroid. Followed by another. And another. And another.

"Thirteen Basestars," Emory stood slowly. "That's over half their fleet."

Mason made a point to look up, down, and around to allow the camera on his helmet to capture the scene.

"What in the frak are they doing here?" Mason made an attempt to kept his voice even. "This isn't right...something's going on here..."

"We're coming about, Scott," Emory quietly said. The men stood rooted to the spot as the horizon of the asteroid crept down, revealing the rest of the armada.

"This is unbelievable," Mason said, absolutely stunned.

"Let's move," Emory replied. "Our window's closing."

The men jumped gently into their seats.

"Set for quick start," Mason said needlessly, mostly to himself.

"Roger," Emory replied.

"Garrett - look, they're recalling their Raiders."

"Well, we know what that means," Emory quickly flipped axillary power on.

"A jump," Mason agreed. The time for subtlety had passed. He quickly hard-booted the Raptor back to life. "Skid release...now!"

Emory yanked a lever near the floor - releasing the Raptor's slight grip on the asteroid.

"Punch it, Scott!"

* * *

_BSG 45 Battlestar _Cathedral & _Col. Cruiser _Fairwood Common _- R886 +17.25 hours AWOL_

"'...believed to be massing in Sector Twelve for coordinated attack on unknown Colonial targets - all elements ordered to Condition Two...combat air patrols are ordered around all Colonial assets, with alert fighters on standby.' Sweet frakkin' mother of Artemis," Weissbach read the orders in disbelief. He wheeled over to communications, "Ensign! Get in touch with the _Fairwood Common_, we're going to condition one!"

"Sir! The _Common _shows condition one already!"

"Well, at least they got the message, too," growled the _Cathedral_'s Executive Officer, a severe-looking Colonel by the name of A.J. Bauer.

"A.J., let's do the same," Weissbach said quickly.

"Aye, sir," Bauer flipped up a phone with speed. "Action stations, action stations! Set condition one throughout the ship, this is not a drill! Action stations! This is the X.O."

Bauer set the phone down, glancing over at Weissbach. He leaned across the nav table, speaking quietly to Weissbach, "Do you think our boys have any idea? They're right in the middle of it."

"If they made it," Weissbach whispered back, "I'm sure they're wondering why they're surrounded by half the Cylon fleet...gods, I hope they pull this off..."

* * *

Mason laid the throttle down on the Raptor - demanding everything the engines had. The Raptor shook slightly in protest to escape the weak gravitational pull of the asteroid, but broke free without much protest. The craft blazed a straight line toward the command ship - a mere fifteen hundred kilometers away.

"Keep her pinned, Scott! I'm going to arm the package!"

"Not too early!" Mason bellowed. "They'll jump away!"

"We'll be there in thirty seconds! Just fly, you idiot!" Emory retorted.

Mason's eyes shifted forward once again, locking themselves on the Command Basestar. He knew that without the Colonial transponder, it would take the Cylons only a few seconds longer to recognize what exactly was beating feet toward their command vessel, and only a few seconds after that to open fire. He generously estimated that they had fifteen seconds of free flying time before all hell broke loose.

"Multiple dradis contacts! Mark thirteen Cylon basestars...ten Cylon heavy freighters, several hundred Raiders, ah, hell I can't even read this frakkin' thing!" Emory growled at the screen.

"I think they're on to us," Mason said cryptically as the Basestars surrounding them began launching innumerable Raiders. The glinting specks of silver massed together, looking like a powerful river as it plunged over high falls.

"Incoming missiles!" Emory cried. Not being satisfied simply with launching Raiders, several Basestars loosed a volly of missiles, all headed in the direction of the comparatively tiny Raptor 886.

"Those ships have to have some sort of safeguard, like ours do," Mason said, flying straight on toward the centralized Basestar. "The missiles will veer off once they get close as not to cause friendly fire."

"You're one hell of an optimist," Emory remarked. "Weapons online."

Mason nodded, "Ok."

"I'm going to save the missiles for when we get close - if you can get me in for guns offense, I can do it," Emory shouted.

"I'm going to stay on course - if anything gets in our way -"

"- I'll blow them straight to hell," Emory nodded. "Like this!"

A flight of Raiders detached from their squadron and formed a head-to-head run with the Raptor. Emory took careful aim and began peppering the opposing fighters with quick bursts of fire. It wasn't enough to wholly destroy any fighters - but it offered some deterrence.

"Five hundred meters!" Mason called, his eyes focused on the yawning hanger door on the Basestar - belching Raiders by the dozens.

"Go for it, I'll plow the road!" Emory bellowed. He quickly brought up the targeting computer.

The Raptor lurched as it absorbed a burst of fire from a passing Raider. Alarms squawked.

Emory locked the four Archer missiles on to the hanger bay door and formed a firing solution in less than three seconds. "Firing!"

Four frozen vapor trails streaked out from the Raptor - blazing a path straight for the Basestar.

"Arm the nukes! Give us one minute!" Mason called.

"If we make it," Emory replied, flipping over the weapons detonator. He punched in one minute, and slammed his thumb down hard on the "Arm" button.

Instantly, the nukes came to life in the back seat. The central board where the whole works was wired to blinked furiously. And, in the same moment, the Cylons instantly disengaged.

"Hey, Scott, guess what," Emory cracked.

"What, Emory?!" Mason roared.

"Radiological alarm," the co-pilot snickered.

"Gods! Get ready to jump!"

Mason pointed the nose of the Raptor up, rolling into a tight arc. The four missiles that Emory fired _slammed_ into the side of the Basestar, sending a ball of fire outward. Mason flew right for it.

"Heads up!" Emory yelled. Debris scattered like confetti in the space around the hanger door. The absence of a windscreen made this a problem.

"Gods damn!" Mason yelled as fragments of metal invaded the cabin space.

"Just set us down!"

Mason squinted furiously through the chaos - locating a flat spot on the inside of the hanger. Raiders were now launching en masse - having detected the presence of nuclear weapons in uncomfortably close proximity.

"Forty seconds!"

"Grab the guns!" Mason bellowed. Emory reached behind the seats, pulling out the towing guns.

Mason pushed the yoke down, forcing the Raptor down onto the deck of the Basestar in a landing that could best be described as horrendous. The craft skidded across the deck in a wild and dizzying spin.

"Jump!" Emory cried, grabbing Mason's shoulder. Mason grabbed the towing gun and leaped blindly from the Raptor.

They landed in a heap on the flight deck of the basestar. Disentangling themselves from one another with speed, they stood and looked wildly about.

"How much time?" Mason pressed.

"Thirty seconds at best!" Emory replied, looking around quickly. "There!"

Emory pointed at a line of launching Raiders perhaps fifty meters away. The pair began sprinting over, drawing their sidearms.

"Clankers!" Mason roared, raising his weapon and firing at a line of Cylon Centurions that had seemingly appeared from out of nowhere.

"We need to go, Scott!" Emory roared as Mason ducked behind a support column for cover.

Mason whipped around again, raising his towing gun and firing it at the _head_ of an approaching Centurion. The machine was no match for the rapidly approaching tow hook. The hook instantly decapitated the machine - another fell next to it - shot in the metallic face by Mason.

Emory continued sprinting forward, his gun blazing. After dropping three in as many seconds, he raised his towing gun and fired into the side of a Raider that was idling up noisily.

_"Scott!"_

Mason wheeled around, seeing Emory fire his towing gun into the side of the idling Raider. He dropped his own towing gun, reloading his sidearm as he sprinted over to his wingman.

"Come on!" Emory bellowed.

Mason skidded to a halt next to his wingman, quickly attaching himself to his wingman with a heavy-duty metal clip.

There was perhaps a prolonged second where Mason and Emory looked at each other, acknowledging the fact that they had just strapped themselves to an enemy space superiority fighter capable of sublight speeds approaching the FTL mark. Also considered in the prolonged second was the soundness of this decision. However, with the alternative being remaining on an enemy capital ship with three nuclear weapons and a metric ton of high explosive recently delivered to it - the decision to strap oneself to a Raider didn't seem that outlandish.

The Raider took off with a shocking start - knocking the wind out of both pilots as the tow line snapped taut - instantly yanking the two off their feet and out into open space.

In the hypothetical situation of Mason posessing any air in his lungs, he surely would have been screaming. There was no training program, no standard operating guideline, and indeed no precedent to describe the feeling of being towed behind a Cylon Raider in open space in nothing but a sealed flight suit and a survival pack.

Emory had somehow regained the wind in his lungs, "Ten seconds!"

Mason blinked slowly, attempting to count down in his head. He made sure to close his eyes tightly.

_Five...four...three..._

Emory had produced his field knife from a side pocket in his flight suit. He scraped the blade along the line, loosing the two tethered pilots from the Raider. Their momentum flung them away from the sabotaged Basestar.

_Two...one..._

The Basestars surrounding the command ship jumped away with speed as the package detonated. A blinding flash preceded a massive, albeit quick, explosion. The Basestar literally disintegrated in a blinding flash of tyllium-fueled flash fire.

In the span of the following ten seconds, every Cylon ship in the vicinity jumped away - leaving behind the rapidly-expanding debris field that was once a capital ship.

Floating ahead of the debris field, and somehow still breathing, were the forms of Mason and Emory, tethered together by a short piece of rope. Mason's head was swimming as he fought to keep conscious.

"That was fun," he managed to whisper.

"Right, let's never do it again," Emory breathed, unmoving as the pair floated aimlessly.

Mason managed to regain feeling in his fingers, and slowly, deliberately reached upward to the side of his survival pack. He found a cord secured under a peice of ripstop fabric, and pulled it with force.

_Beep...beep...beep...beep..._

"Well at least they'll be able to find our bodies," Mason sighed. He looked down to his left wrist at the secondary pressure readout.

"Forty-six hours and change," Emory said quietly.

"Time to breathe slowly, then," Mason agreed. The two young pilots had been through air conservation training. They knew that talking, moving about, and stress caused a person to consume air faster than a person who remained still and quiet.

Which appeared to a non-issue for Mason, as the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion washed over him. The weightlessness of space was surprisingly comfortable. He admitted to himself that this comfortable feeling would possibly be the last thing that he felt.

_That's alright_ he thought as he drifted into unconsciousness. _That's alright. _


	8. Chapter 8

8.

When Mason awoke, it was in a haze. He had little idea of where he was, or what he was doing. Even pinning down his name was a struggle.

_Training. Pilot. Air. Suit. _

Words formed in his mind, reminding him of the questions his brain asked. He was in space. He was floating. He was Lieutenant Scott Mason, service number Zero-Five-Five-Seven-Two-Zero-Nine-One-One. He was freezing cold. He needed air.

Mason's heart sunk as he slowly brought his shaking left wrist level with his eyes. He had less than twelve hours left of air. Had he really been asleep that long?

He slowly reached over and grabbed the back of Emory's survival pack. He found his wingman fast asleep - frost forming around his helmet's visor. A glance at his friend's left wrist told him a similar story. Emory would be out of air shortly after he was. He fleetingly wanted to wake him - to apologize again. And to thank him for being there. For not allowing him to die alone.

He sighed, allowing himself one deep, shaking breath of air. For years, he had been preparing himself for a fiery death at the hands of the Cylons - going down with his guns blazing. But to die with no one but his wigman in cold, dark space...the thought made him depressed.

Mason's mind didn't quite register the memories of the previous hours. He only remembered waking up. The memory of that, admittedly, was fleeting.

His head swam to and fro at the thought. He was lucid, but not necessarily "with it." He felt almost intoxicated - like the many nights where he had one too many at the Bent Bird back on Picon. Or at the Charging Bull in downtown Hypatia. It seemed like so long ago.

However morbid the thought was, the one optimistic thought he managed to form was the thought of dying next to his wingman and friend of nearly five years. There was no one else in the known universe that Mason trusted more than Emory. He lamented, silently of course, to himself that Emory would never make the possibilities of his dreams a reality. He would never be able to go back to Tauron, to Hypatia, to see Nina again. He would die as Mason would. Cold, in the middle of Cylon-occupied territory.

He sighed again, closing his eyes. He hoped that the end, whenever it would come, would be brief.

* * *

"Wake up, Lieutenant."

Mason stirred slightly.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," he managed to say, with great effort.

"Good. Open your eyes."

The young man cracked his eyes open, the light of his surroundings almost blinding. He squeezed them shut again, "Emory?"

"Lieutenant Emory will be just fine. I need you to open your eyes," the voice was calm, but firm.

Mason did so again, letting his eyes adjust to his surroundings. He barely recognized where he was. A sick bay. On a Colonial ship. Covered in an active re-warming blanket.

"One milligram epi with twenty of caffeine," someone mumbled to Mason's left.

"Coffee wouldn't be terrible," he managed to whisper, a smirk forming around his chapped lips.

This drew a laugh from the people gathered around Mason's bedside. His vision was clearing. He saw several dark blue duty uniforms, a few white lab coats, and the odd dark green of either utilities or flight suits - he couldn't tell which.

"Spoken like a true aviator," said a gruff voice. "Get this kid some coffee, please."

"Can I sit up a little?" Mason whispered. His fingers were tingling, along with his toes. His body felt like there were millions of tiny pins poking into his skin.

"Sure. How do you feel?" said a white coat to his left.

"I've been better," he admitted.

"I bet," said the white coat.

"Where the frak am I?" Mason asked, looking around. Faces were now in focus. Standing around him were the forms of no less than two Captains, a Major, a Colonel, a Commander, and a Rear Admiral. Along with a team made up of two doctors and two nurses, respectively.

"Lieutenant, I'm Peter Corman," the Rear Admiral stepped forward, leaning down slightly, looking at Mason with a conflicted expression. Mason looked in the man's eyes, and then to his left shoulder.

"BSG 41. The _Valkyrie_. I'm on the _Valkyrie_, sir?" Mason asked.

"Yes," Corman said. "You are. Officially, though, you're not. You're on one of the other sixteen Battlestars in the fleet. But not this one. I trust you understand why, son."

"Well enough, anyway, sir," Mason examined the Admiral's face. Creased and worn as many senior officers were in the Colonial Fleet, with an expression that wore just as much sadness as it did severity.

"I appreciate your candor in this," continued Corman.

"How'd you find me?" Mason asked.

"Your distress beacon," said the Admiral. "That was after we detected a large nuclear weapon detonation at the other end of the sector. You only had about an hour's worth of air left, and you were severely hypothermic when we found you two."

"It's a damn good thing you guys officially aren't in Cylon space, then," Mason said. A nurse had brought in some coffee. Mason thanked her, taking a sip. The hot liquid burned his chapped lips, but he didn't care.

"Yes, it's a good thing we're not here," Corman smirked. "Which brings me to my next point, Mason. Some very important people know you're here. And they know what you and Emory did."

"Sir, I take full-"

"Never mind that now, son," the Admiral held up a hand. "You need to focus on getting back to flight status. Once you're back, we'll get you into a Raptor. You're to jump to Picon Fleet Headquarters to be debriefed."

"Debriefed," Mason sighed. "And then court-martialed, I'm sure."

Corman paused, "Possibly. That's not for me to decide. Personally, I think the fleet could probably overlook the regulations you violated in light of what you managed to accomplish. But, as I said, that's not for me to decide."

Mason took another sip of coffee, nodding. He looked down at his hands. They were an unsettling shade of bluish-gray, and felt stiff. He flexed his fingers, wincing in pain as his body protested.

"Sir, I'm assuming you still have my flight gear?" Mason asked next.

Corman gave him a confused look before glancing over at the rest of the gathered officers. The Major stepped forward, "We've got it. It had to go through decon, of course, but it's here."

"On my helmet, you'll find a small high-def camera. I recorded the entire thing on it. You'll see exactly what I saw - and believe me, you'll want to, sir," Mason said.

Corman's eyes lit up slightly, "_Everything_, you said?"

"Yes, sir. Everything," the young pilot nodded. "I just want to keep a copy for myself, of course."

Corman glanced to the Major, nodding. The man vanished almost instantly.

"We'll have a look at that tape, Lieutenant," Corman said. He glanced around at the rest of the officers, "This doesn't leave the room - but from what I know, you two have just pulled off the most decisive move in this war to date. That's not to mention probably the bravest, too. I don't want to jump to conclusions...but it's possible that you two kids have given the Fleet what it needs in order to make some measurable progress. I wish we had more men like you."

Mason shrugged, "We just thought it was the right thing to do, sir."

Corman nodded, extending a hand. Mason raised his eyebrows, gripping the Admiral's hand with his own semi-frozen one.

"You can stay aboard for as long as you like," Corman said. "I can at least make something up about your medical progress to keep the Admiralty off your case."

"Thank you, sir," Mason said, feeling exhaustion creeping up slowly on him.

"Get better, son," the old Admiral said quietly.

* * *

_BSG 41 - Battlestar _Valkyrie_ - one week later_

Mason had developed a very acute understanding and a new found respect for victims of exposure. The young pilot had since discovered exactly how painful it was to have his own flesh slowly and systematically thawed out. He was, however, extremely grateful that there was no lasting damage to his fine motor control. He would still be able to fly.

"How is it that the coffee is better out here?" Emory mused, taking a long, slow sip of the steaming liquid. "Millions of miles from Colonial space, and they have better coffee?"

"Absurd," Mason agreed. The two sat in the mess, quietly taking in their last meal aboard the Battlestar that didn't exist.

"So," Emory said. "What do you think the punishment will be?"

Mason took another bite, considering his answer carefully, "At the very least, dishonorable discharge. Probably more along the lines of a year in the brig, followed by discharge. They'll probably get us for disobeying a direct order, absent without leave, theft of Fleet property, theft of weaponry...which will be first-degree, considering we boosted nukes..."

"Unauthorized use of nuclear weapons will be a big one, too," Emory nodded.

"Oh, yeah," Mason said. "Forgot about that."

"Which will probably up the sentence to five years, at least," said his wingman, draining his coffee.

"Indeed."

A young petty officer approached their table, "Lieutenants?"

Emory turned, "Yes?"

"Sir, the Admiral has requested to meet with you before you depart," the non-commissioned officer said, saluting crisply.

Emory returned it, "Very well. Thank you."

The two stood after the messenger had made his exit. They made their way upward from the mess - headed for the Commanding Officer's quarters. The layout of the _Valkyrie_ was (thankfully) almost identical to the _Cathedral_ - so navigation was made somewhat easy. Mason zipped up the front of his flight suit in an attempt to make himself slightly more presentable to the Admiral. Someone had done them the courtesy of finding their flight suits and cleaning them - even going so far as to re-attach the white-on-black patch proudly bearing the moniker of the Battlestar _Cathedral_ - BSG 45.

Mason rapped curtly on the door of the CO's quarters shortly after he and Emory came to a stop in front of it.

"Yes," came the reply. The two entered slowly.

"Ah, gentlemen," Corman waved them in from his desk.

"Admiral," Emory said for the two of them as they approached his desk, saluting crisply.

Corman stood as they approached, returning the salute, "Have a seat, gentlemen."

Mason glanced at Emory somewhat uncomfortably. They had never actually been _invited_ to sit down in an Admiral's office before. They obeyed, however, sinking into the leather chairs that faced the desk.

"I watched the footage you took," Corman began, simply. "From preliminary analysis, the intelligence you two gathered is beyond comprehension. No one has ever been that close to that large of a Cylon fleet and lived to tell about it. It just hasn't happened."

The two pilots held their cool - keeping non-committal expressions glued to their faces.

"The tactics you used to get in that close, well," Corman sat back in his chair, laughing slightly. "That's something that I'm not sure even our best pilots could pull off. Now, I'm not saying that it hasn't been thought of...but what you two did has never been successfully tried. It took skill. And luck. You just happened to have the right combination of both."

Mason and Emory remained silent, their attention rapt.

Corman held up the small camera. He tossed it to Mason, who caught it softly.

"We didn't erase the video," he said, simply. "But do take care with who you show that to."

"Of course, sir," Mason said, quietly. "Thank you, sir."

The old Admiral sat back his chair, glancing at the wall of his office. A large wooden crest adorned the wall - bearing the logo of the Eighth Viper Squadron - the Red Aces, better known as the Ace's n' Eights. As with all pilots, the Admiral had several photos surrounding the crest - showing a much younger Peter Corman in a flight suit.

"It'll make a hell of a video in the ready room, I'm sure," Corman said.

"Yes, sir," the two pilots mumbled.

Corman returned his gaze to the young men. "I hope that Schaeffer doesn't come down too hard on you. I spoke to him personally, and told him to review the footage and debrief you before any decisions are made. Now, I think Weissbach will, at the very least, be understanding...but if for some reason he's not, and you find yourself in need of a place to fly, give me a call. I could use you two out here."

"Thank you, sir," Mason said quietly, contemplating what laid in store for him in the coming hours.

"Your Raptor is waiting. Good hunting, gentlemen."

* * *

"Final jump coordinates accepted," Mason reported. Emory sat in the pilot's chair for this hop - Mason sat co-pilot and navigator.

"Okay then," Emory spun the FTL drive. "Here's to the last jump of our Colonial careers."

"Cheers," Mason smiled sadly. Their next stop would be Picon Fleet Headquarters - where Fleet Police and the inevitability of a lot of explaining to do awaited them.

"Three...two...one...jump," Emory said quietly, turning the jump key.

Instantaneously, they appeared in the orbit of the familiar, brilliantly blue planet. Covered mostly with water, Picon always appeared to be glowing from orbit.

"Ah, good old Picon," Mason sighed, laying in the familiar course to Fleet Headquarters.

"Good to see it's still here," Emory said, bringing the Raptor in to a low orbit with the signature grace of his flying. Mason always marveled at the way Emory flew - very controlled, quick, and graceful. The young Caprican pilot had a knack for pushing every bird he flew to the edge of the envelope with seemingly no effort on his part or the part of the machine's.

They bumped slightly off the atmosphere before making entry. Emory kept the throttle somewhat high - keeping the speed of the Raptor up to keep the descent through the atmosphere as short as possible.

Thirty seconds later, they broke through into the clear sky around the watery planet. Emory took over control - the atmospheric flight now requiring his full attention.

_"Raptor Seven-Niner-One, this is Picon Air - acknowledge and respond."_

"Picon Air, Seven-Niner-One, callsign Emory, we copy," replied the pilot in his crisp Caprican accent.

_"Seven-Niner-One, Emory, you are instructed to take heading one-seven-three, descend to angels seventeen, slow to three hundred KPH and prepare to land with escort."_

"Seven-Niner-One, roger, one-seven-three at three hundred, angels seventeen," Emory responded, instantly slowing the craft and allowing it to descend to the requested seventeen thousand kilometers above the surface. Mason quickly laid in the course to Fleet Headquarters.

Almost instantly, two Vipers came alongside the Raptor - the insignia on their noses bearing a large number Four.

"Ah, the Demons," Mason remarked, looking to the left side of the Raptor. The pilots were skilled enough, flying tight with the Raptor. Mason saw the pilot glance over. He offered a cordial salute, which was returned, however fleetingly.

The descent and landing to Fleet Headquarters was, at the most, uneventful. Emory brought the Raptor in gently, landing as directed with no additional frills or theatrics. Mason agreed that it was best not to push their luck.

The side door opened, and the two young pilots stepped out on to the tarmac - feeling real gravity for the first time in months. They were met by a contingent of Fleet Police Marines, and a Captain dressed in normal duty blues.

"Lieutenant Mason. Lieutenant Emory," the Captain said, formally.

"Yes, sir," Mason nodded, keeping his hands at his sides.

"Gentlemen, you are under arrest for several violations of the Uniform Code of Fleet Justice. You have the right to remain silent. Anything said henceforth will be used against you in general court martial. You have the right to Fleet-appointed representation. You have the right to representation before and during all questioning. Do you understand these rights as read to you?"

"Yes, sir," Emory nodded, taking care to keep his voice calm.

"Yes, sir," Mason said.

"Your sidearms, Lieutenants," the Captain displayed courtesy by keeping his hands clasped behind his back.

Mason slowly un-holstered his sidearm and ejected the magazine. He worked the slide, jettisoning the cartridge. He locked the slide in place, ensuring the weapon was cleared. He handed the whole works to a powerfully-built Marine who had stepped forward to accept the weapons. Emory mirrored the actions of Mason, surrendering his sidearm without protest.

"Thank you for your cooperation, gentlemen," the Captain nodded in appreciation. "If you will please follow me."

Mason nodded, walking beside Emory as they were lead inside the Fleet Headquarters terminal, surrounded on both sides by no less than ten Fleet Police. The mass of people inside the terminal stopped in their tracks, looking at the two pilots surrounded by the heavy escort. They walked quickly to an elevator.

"Sergeant, I believe you can dismiss your men. I'll only require two of them, please," the Captain nodded to the squad leader.

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant said, pointing at two of his men wordlessly and thrusting a thumb backwards to the elevator. The two Marines stepped into the elevator, the doors closing behind him.

The elevator began the quick journey upward. The Captain turned to them.

"My name is Captain Troy Cortez. I've been appointed chief prosecutor in the matter of the Colonies of Kobul versus Mason and Emory," he said, plainly. "Admiral Schaeffer has requested to personally debrief you with his staff before the court martial proceeds. I would be more than happy to arrange for your representation before the debriefing begins."

Mason looked at Emory. Emory shrugged, "You're better at this than I am."

"Hmph," Mason hummed, smirking. "Captain, we'll wave our right to representation and proceed directly with the debriefing. I'm sure our counsel will be able to get caught up in time."

"Very well, I appreciate it, as does the Fleet," he nodded. The elevator came to a quiet halt, the doors opening to reveal the upper levels of Fleet Headquarters - reserved for Fleet Command staff.

Mason and Emory were lead down the hallway and into a side conference room. They were ushered inside as the Marines took up guard outside the door. Coffee was served.

"Gentlemen, if you could please remain here for the time being, Admiral Schaeffer and the staff will be along shortly, and we can begin the debriefing. Is there anything I can get you?" Cortez asked.

"No, sir," Mason politely refused.

"Very well," he nodded, stepping quickly outside the door, closing and locking it behind him.

"Interesting," Emory mused, leaning back in his chair and sipping coffee. "We've been under arrest, but never this bad, I don't think."

"Nope, this definitely takes it," Mason agreed, rocking back and forth in the chair.

"You have the video?" Emory asked, looking over at Mason.

"Of course," Mason answered, holding up the small data stick. "It's the only thing we have. They're going to have to take this or leave it. It'll be up to them what they do. We can't change anything now. What's done is done."

"Indeed," Emory smiled, stretching in the chair.

The two seemed remarkably at ease when consideration was given to their predicament. They were staring down the end of their careers as pilots. And quite possibly the loss of their freedom. However, they both acknowledged the fact that there was no changing what they had done. And in all reality, they were fortunate enough just to be alive.

The door creaked open. The Captain had returned. He nodded slightly to the two men, who promptly rose to their feet and drew themselves to attention.

Schaeffer swept into the room, flanked by his staff, and of all people, Commander Weissbach.

"As you were," he said, the tone in his voice hard to trace. His expression was a mask. Mason immediately felt uncomfortable as he re-took his seat.

Weissbach offered no words - rather he simply looked at Mason and Emory with a peculiar mix of rage and astonishment as he took a seat around the heavy conference table.

Cortez walked briskly to the head of the table, clearing his throat, "Admiral, with your permission sir, we'll begin."

"Let's get on with it," Schaeffer muttered.

"Aye, sir," Cortez nodded curtly. "Lieutenant Mason, we'll begin with you. Approximately a week and a half ago, you were informed of preliminary stage operation code named Harvest Moon. This operation, being of the nature it was, was based upon information that was sketchy at best. Upon receiving updated intellegence, your superior officer made the decision to scrub the mission. It was at that time that you allegedly disobeyed the order to stand down, and proceeded with the mission. Is this correct?"

"Allegedly, sir," Mason nodded, careful not to admit his own guilt. Cortez recognized the slight dodge and smirked slightly.

"You then allegedly piloted Raptor number Eight-Eight-Six, attached to the Battlestar _Cathedral_ to the Scorpion Ship Yards, where you then found the ordinance package that had been prepared for the now-scrubbed operation. You then ordered a non-commissioned officer to load the package to the stolen Raptor, and then reportedly _shot away_ the pressurized air-lock door to the main flight deck of the station, placing hundreds of Fleet sailors and soldiers at risk, and ignored several additional orders to stand down, before jumping away. Am I correct?"

"Again, sir, allegedly," Mason nodded. His voice was even, despite the fact he was quickly tiring of the Captain's tone. He noticed a distinct lack of pilot's wings on the left chest of Cortez's dark blue uniform. He quickly assumed, correctly, that the only thing this Captain drove for the fleet was a desk.

"Which is where our information stops," Cortez relented. "If you could oblige us, Lieutenant, with filling us in on the rest of the story."

"Yes, sir," Mason stood, looking around the room. He tried not to stare at the massive insignia on Schaeffer's collar. He took a quiet breath. "The jump was plotted to bring us to the outer edges of Sector Twelve - as the briefing sent from this office had directed."

The Admiral's staff scowled at the slight jab. Schaeffer's face remained placid. Weissbach's expression continued to be one of amazement.

"From there, we navigated our way through the sector, eventually locating the massed Cylon fleet," Mason continued, matter-of-factually. "I then activated a camera on my helmet, knowing that the Raptor's gun camera would not survive the engagement. I think we can all agree that rather than have me explain what happened, watching the actual events will suffice. With your permission, sir."

Schaeffer narrowed his eyes, sizing up Mason. The young man kept his feet planted firmly, trying not to shake. The Admiral nodded wordlessly, running a hand over his creased face.

Mason nodded, "Thank you, sir."

He walked briskly over to the presentation podium, where he plugged the data stick in to the transmitter. The lights dimmed as the projector clicked on.

Mason walked back to his seat, taking it silently. He and Emory simply leaned back, watching the expressions of the people gathered around them. The Admiral's face remained stony, as did Weissbach's. The staff, however, was varied. Some simply looked on, their mouths agape. Others, clearly not hiding their functions as Military Intelligence officers, scribbled notes furiously.

Emory offered a smirk at Mason as they watched their actions again. A brief fist-to-fist contact was made as the video showed Emory standing on the wing of the Raptor in open space, firing the tow hook into the asteroid.

The video played on - the memories of flying through the Cylon armada being replayed before Mason's eyes. He sipped on his coffee casually, trying not to acknowledge exactly how close he was from being instantly vaporized.

Even the intelligence guys were compelled to drop their pens and simply stare in amazement as the screen showed two pilots making rapid egress from a crashed Raptor _inside_ of a Cylon Basestar.

"Looks like an old frontier shootout," Emory remarked quietly, seeing himself on the screen as he raised his sidearm, spewing punishment out towards the Centurion detachment.

"Nice shot," Mason nodded, seeing one of Emory's bullets nail a Centurion right in the red, scanning eye.

"Wait for it," his wingman whispered. The video played on, showing Mason foolishly raising his towing gun and shortly thereafter decapitating a Centurion with his lucky shot. Emory snorted into his coffee, hardly containing his amusement. Even Mason had to laugh audibly.

A few heads turned their direction, their faces appalled at the thought of the two young men _laughing_ as they re-lived their uncomfortably close brush with death.

"That's enough," Schaeffer spoke finally, standing. The video was paused abruptly, the lights were raised, and everyone in the room leaped to their feet hastily.

The Admiral cast a calculating look to the screen. The video had paused shortly after the detonation of the payload, showing a giant tyllium fireball in the background, and Mason's wildly splayed feet in the foreground. Schaeffer then shifted his gaze to the two pilots.

He was silent for a moment or two, clearly deep in thought. He spoke slowly, "So. Can someone please confirm for me the status of the Colonial Films Studios on Caprica?"

Everyone in the room blinked, instantly confused.

"Anyone?"

"Sir, the studios were completely destroyed two and a half years ago during a Cylon assault, sir."

"I thought so," Schaeffer said, thoughtfully. "So there's no possible way that this could be an elaborate forgery, is there?"

"No, sir," said another faceless aide.

"I see," the Admiral nodded, commanding the room's respect with no effort. "I think we'll take a day to dissect the information and intelligence gathered on this video before proceeding any further."

The Intelligence officers were almost quivering on the spot, hardly containing their excitement.

"Very good, sir," Cortez nodded. He turned to the two young pilots, "Lieutenants, the Marines outside will escort you to the holding cell-"

"That won't be necessary," Schaeffer's voice definitely now had an edge in it. Cortez stopped short.

"Sir?"

"Troy, for one, these two Viper jocks have displayed a particular knack in outrunning and outgunning the very best we have to offer in the Fleet," Schaeffer remarked, raising an eyebrow.

Weissbach exhaled forcefully through his nose.

"So putting them into a holding cell would serve no purpose. They'd be out before we knew it, on an FTL-capable ship, and off this watery rock before we even pulled our pants up," the Admiral continued. "More importantly, given that the events of this video are all factual in nature, I think the least we can do for them before crucifying them in a general court martial is at least put them up in comfortable accommodations for the night. Doesn't that sound reasonable to you, Captain?"

"It does, sir," Cortez swallowed hard.

"Put them in the senior officer's board," Schaeffer said casually. "And please see to it they get something decent to eat."

"Aye, sir," the Captain nodded.

Schaeffer made his exit quickly. A dozen hands flew to a dozen brows as he did so.

Mason quickly exchanged a _holy frak_ look with Emory. He looked back at Cortez, who was leaning hard on the back of a chair.

"Well then," the lawyer/officer said, drawing himself up. "I - I must say that I wasn't informed on the _entire_ story before I took the case..."

"Having second thoughts, sir?" Emory asked, veiling the jab beautifully.

"No, certainly not," Cortez was quick to the defense. He shook his head quickly, as though an annoying insect was buzzing around his ears. "If you will follow me, please."

* * *

"Ho-ly _frak_!" Emory bounded into the senior officer's boarding quarters. "I have _got_ to get a promotion!"

Mason stood up suddenly from behind the mini-bar, holding two miniature bottles of whiskey in each hand. "Do you think this shit's _free?_"

The quarters were minimally described as lavish - something akin to things that the two young pilots hadn't seen in years.

"Probably," Emory said, collapsing onto one of the over sized, plush beds. "Man...real sheets and comforters. And pillows! Fluffy ones!"

Mason replaced the bottles of whiskey, instead opting for two bottles of what appeared to be micro-brewed beer.

"The Queenstown Brewing Company, I'll be damned," he whispered, handing a bottle to Emory.

His wingman sat up, using his belt buckle to crack open the bottle. He took a long draw, "So. I think they were impressed with the video. That was excellent thinking."

"I don't think we're out of the woods just yet," Mason relented, unzipping the top of his flight suit. "There's still the question of what to do with us."

Emory shrugged, nodding, "True. Or maybe they're just hiding how much they really are pissed off at us very well. Hell, I don't know."

"I don't know, either," Mason relented. He looked up at the sound of a curt knock at the door.

He opened it, seeing a young third-class petty officer.

"Hey," Mason blinked, confused.

"Hey, oh - sorry, sir," the petty officer quickly recanted his informal greeting, seeing the flight suits. The young man was at least smart enough to know that only commissioned officers could fly. He saluted crisply.

Mason sighed, returning the formal salute, "What do you got, petty officer?"

"Sir," the young man said stiffly, "I was requested to inform you that proceedings will resume tomorrow at zero-eight-hundred in the conference room. I was also asked to give you these - please feel free to order anything you'd like. It's been taken care of. The only request that my superior has is that you do not leave the premesis."

Mason accepted the two menus that the young non-com handed to him. He raised an eyebrow suspiciously, "So what are you, like a concierge service?"

"Technically, I'm a senior officer guest aide, sir," the petty officer mumbled.

"They actually have those here?!" Emory shouted from a recliner in the sitting room. "Holy frak, Scott, we're doing it wrong!"

Mason glanced over his shoulder, smirking, "He doesn't mean to belittle what you're doing, man," he then said to the young man.

"It's alright, sir," the petty officer sighed. "Can I get you anything for the time being, sir?"

"Um," Mason said, not quite sure how to react. "I'll - uh - let you know. Do I just pick up the wireless or something?"

"Yes, sir," the petty officer nodded.

"Right," the Lieutenant looked around. "You want a beer?"

The young man blinked, "A - a beer, sir?"

"Yeah," Mason blinked, cocking his head to the side. "What, you don't get beer here?"

"Sir, admittedly, it's in pretty short supply," he replied. "They reserve it for senior guests, sir."

"What the frak?" Emory had joined Mason at the door. He snatched the menu from Mason.

"I know, right? That's absolute bullshit," Mason glanced at Emory, appalled. He turned again to the Petty Officer, "What's your name?"

"Carlson, sir," the now named Petty Officer Third Class Carlson said, confused.

"Right, step in here quick and close the door," Mason said, pulling the young man inside with a quick glance around the hallway.

Carlson stepped inside, obviously uncomfortable and confused. Emory was glancing at the menu, and scribbling notes at a frantic pace on some stationary.

Mason quickly bounded over to the bed, liberating a silk pillowcase from the set. He then walked quickly to the fridge, yanking it open. He began piling bottles into the pillowcase with abandon.

"So, Carlson, am I correct in assuming that the senior officer guests are treated to anything off the menu, as much as they want?" Emory glanced up, still scratching away notes.

"Yes, sir," Carlson nodded.

"What's the best thing on the menu?"

"That would be the Picon Duck with Noddles, sir," the young petty officer now made no attempt to hide his discomfort. "Sir, I really should be-"

"Quiet," Mason said, tying the top of the pillowcase off. "Since I'm still a commissioned officer for at least the next fifteen hours, these are my orders. You are to take these down to the rest of the non-coms you work with here and disseminate them as appropriate, do you understand?"

Carlson held out a shaking hand and accepted the thirty-kilo pillowcase stuffed with bottles from Mason, "I -uh-"

"An 'aye, sir' will suffice," Emory finished for him, sticking the stationary in the Petty Officer's chest pocket. "Also, we'll need twelve orders of the Picon bird whatever stuff - with everything. You are to bring two of them here and then frakking lose the other ten orders of food most ricky-tick - do you get me?"

"Aye, sir," the young petty officer blinked, utterly dumbfounded. "Take the sack full of beer back to my guys, and lose the other ten orders of Duck."

"Exactly," Mason nodded. "Get going."

"Aye, sir."

The young man made a quick exit from the room. Mason and Emory looked at each other momentarily before breaking into hysterical laughter.

* * *

"Attention on deck!" someone called.

Mason and Emory stood quickly, drawing themselves to crisp attention. Fleet Admiral Schaeffer strode in to the room, dressed as he was always in his Dress Gray uniform. His staff quickly followed. Weissbach and Cortez brought up the rear.

"Everyone sit down," Schaeffer growled.

Mason adjusted the dark blue uniform top he had donned for the morning. It had been a while since he had worn the blue duty uniform. While different, it felt refreshing to be out of the flight suit - for however brief a time he had remaining wearing a colonial uniform.

He looked over at Mason and Emory momentarily before donning a pair of reading glasses. He accepted a briefing packet handed to him by an aide.

"We've looked over the video numerous times, gentlemen," the Admiral began. "In fact, the intelligence guys are still chewing on it now. We have concluded that everything you did was in accordance to Operation Harvest Moon. You did indeed strike the correct Basestar, and in doing so, dealt a crippling blow to Cylon operations."

Mason kept his game face on. _This is good news, right?_

"The only problem with it is you disobeyed a direct order - an order that came directly from _me_ - in doing so," the Admiral's voice was deadly. "I don't take kindly to my orders being disobeyed, gentlemen."

_Oh frak. It's over. Oh frak._ Mason's heart skipped at least five beats as it plummeted through his chest and landed somewhere near his boots.

Schaeffer sighed deeply, "However. I'm not so pretentious as to think that sometimes I make the wrong calls. Sometimes I need to have a little more faith in my people. It's what sets this Colonial Fleet apart from our enemy. Our ability to adapt, overcome, and improvise. We're not programmed into a singular function, as our enemy is. To err is to be human - and how we react to our own shortcomings is what makes us who we are."

The room was silent as everyone absorbed the Admiral's words. He removed his glasses, setting them gently on the table before him.

"And that is what you two showed us. My hat is off to you, gentlemen. You took what was labeled to be an impossible suicide mission, accomplished it, and came back alive with invaluable intelligence to boot. In light of this, the Colonies of Kobul will drop all formal charges stemming from the violations of the Uniform Code committed during this mission. Lieutenants Mason and Emory will be restored to flight status immediately. However, every detail of this mission will be henceforth classified as top secret, until such time that the Fleet deems it no longer a security threat. You two can't be telling everyone that the _Valkyrie_ is indeed still out there, alive and well. Do we have an understanding, gentlemen?"

"Aye, sir," Mason tried not to hyperventilate.

"Aye, sir," Emory said in the quietest voice Mason had ever heard.

"Right," Schaeffer said. "And one last matter to attend to, then..."

"Gentlemen, if you will please come to the front of the room," Wiessbach finally spoke for the first time since Mason and Emory had encountered him two days prior.

The two did as instructed, filing silently to the front of the room.

The senior officers, which was to say Majors and above, all rose to their feet. Mason only now noticed that _every single one_ of them were wearing their dress grays. They all donned their caps and attached their ceremonial swords to their belts. Mason was instantly nervous, but also excited.

"Captain, if you please," Schaeffer nodded, straightening his uniform cap.

"In recognition for actions performed with valor in the service of the Colonial Fleet without thought to their own lives, and in recognition of decisive skill and bravery in the destruction of a major enemy target, the Colonial Fleet now recognizes Lieutenant Scott A. Mason and Lieutenant Garrett M. Emory both with the Order of Kobul - the highest military decoration in existence," the Captain read off of a piece of heavy parchment.

"This is a classified award, gentlemen. Nobody knows about it except for those gathered here in this room. Someday when this is all over, we'll have a proper ceremony. Vipers, flowers, beautiful women and the like," Schaeffer laughed gruffly.

Mason quite literally blushed with embarrassment. Emory made a small noise of disbelief, hardly daring to breathe.

Schaeffer stepped up to Mason, taking the heavy gold medal out of the ornate wooden box held open by one of his aids. The medal was a solid gold Colonial Crest, hung beautifully below a blood-red ribbon, adorned with six embroidered stars on each side, each star representing a Colony. Mason ducked down slowly, allowing the Admiral to place the medal around his neck. The motion was repeated for Emory.

"My congratulations, and my personal thanks to both of you," Schaeffer said, removing his ceremonial white glove and shaking both of their hands warmly with his bare one. "Provided you're done disobeying orders, I see you two going quite far in this fleet."

"Thank you, sir," Mason barely breathed, focusing all his mental energy on trying not to pass out.

"Thank you, very much, sir," Emory whispered in his Caprican accent.

Schaeffer laughed gruffly, "James, I believe you also had something?"

"Yes, sir," Weissbach's bass voice rumbled. "As you two both know, the _Universal_ was heavily engaged with a Cylon Basestar at the time these events unfolded. She suffered heavy losses, including that of her CAG and several of her senior pilots. I, reluctantly, allowed Wire and Roundhouse to go and replace some of their pilots. This leaves me short a Squadron Leader and a CAG."

The senior officers around the room began to smile. The ones wearing Viper wings smiled that much more.

"So," Weissbach turned to Emory. "You're out of uniform, Captain."

Emory's mouth opened in disbelief as Weissbach removed the Lieutenant's insignia on his collar, and replaced them with shining new Captain's pins. Weissbach also produced Emory's sidearm, presented to him by one of Schaeffer's aides.

"Congratulations, Captain. The Vigilantes are now yours to command," Weissbach said, presenting the sidearm back to Emory.

Emory remained rooted to the spot, completely frozen.

"Put your gun away, son, for frak's sake," Weissbach raised an eyebrow.

The newly minted Captain Emory gently took his sidearm and holstered it.

"And as for you," Weissbach turned to Mason. "You're also out of uniform."

No less than three aides came up this time, two carrying small boxes, and one carrying a long, skinny one.

"Congratulations, Major," Wiessbach said. "The _Cathedral_'s Air Group is now yours."

Major Scott Mason's mouth hung open as the Commander pinned the insignia on his collar. He somehow managed to accept his sidearm and holster it safely. An aide stepped up to him, wrapping a formal bandolier around his trim waist.

"And, as Major is a command rank," Weissbach accepted the sword handed to him by the aide. He presented the weapon to Mason, who took it with quivering hands. He awkwardly clipped it to his belt, along the left side of his body.

"Congratulations to the both of you," Schaeffer said. "The _Cathedral_ is that much stronger today."

The room broke into polite applause. Handshakes were exchanged all around.

"Wait a moment, wait a frakkin' moment!" barked Schaeffer. The room was instantly silent. The Fleet Admiral turned to Weissbach. "What are these two young men's callsigns, Commander?"

"They haven't earned any yet, sir," Weissbach folded his arms, looking concerned.

"That needs to change," the Fleet Admiral also folded his arms, standing shoulder to shoulder with Weissbach. Instantly, their ranks seemed to disappear. They were now just a couple of old Viper jocks sizing up fresh meat.

"Well, let's see...we could wait until their homecoming," Weissbach shrugged. He faced Mason, "It'll be like the _Cathedral _is getting her Bishop back when this guy gets home."

"Bishop, huh?" Schaeffer said. The two old men paused, smiling slightly.

"And there it is. Bishop," Weissbach said. "And where would a bishop be without a guardian angel looking over him to make sure he doesn't frak things up too bad?"

Emory blinked, "What, me, sir?"

"Yes, you. Angel. That fits. Bishop and Angel," Weissbach said.

Major Scott "Bishop" Mason smiled. As did Captain Garrett "Angel" Emory. The Order of Kobul, their promotions, and being cleared of all charges against them suddenly seemed insignificant.

They had callsigns. And they were going home.

"Alright, enough standing around," Weissbach rumbled. "Begging your pardon, Admiral. But we've got a war to go win."

Schaeffer shrugged, nodding, "Go win it, then."

The three officers wearing Battlestar _Cathedral_ patches on their left shoulders filed out of the room as aides swarmed the Fleet Admiral. Mason fleetingly felt sorry for the man, having to deal with the politics and bureaucracy of his position.

Weissbach lead the way down the hall, with Bishop and Angel in tow behind them. The two young men felt as though they were floating on air. That was, until the roar of a disgruntled Fleet Admiral boomed down the hallway.

_"What the frak do you mean two cases of beer and ten orders of duck?! Frak!"_

Weissbach paused mid-stride, looking behind his shoulder, smirking. "Time to get off planet, boys?"

Mason and Emory exchanged a glance before bypassing the elevator and sprinting for the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

Part II

The CAG

9.

_"Revile, revile, time now zero-five-thirty_. _Battlestar _Cathedral _day shift report to stations in thirty minutes."_

Major Scott "Bishop" Mason hadn't been rousted by the call to revile. Admittedly, he hadn't slept much at all the previous evening.

A week and a half was hardly enough time for a new supervising officer to get to know everything that was to be known about being the commander of an air group. Bishop had failed to realize all of what an air group entailed. He now had direct control over the ten squadrons of aircraft aboard the _Cathedral_. He paled at the thought. Seven Viper squadrons - the old First, Primus; his own Third, the Vigilantes; the Fourth, Demons; the Fifth, the Prowlers; the Sixth, the Vampires; the Eighth, the Aces n' Eights; and the Ninth, the Headhunters. On top of those, the three Raptor Squadrons attatched to the _Cathedral_ required his attention - the Second (Strike Fighters;) the Seventh (Battleaxe Squadron) and, of course, the famous Tenth (Raptor Fighter Squadron Ten.) Each Viper squadron was comprised of anywhere from ten to twenty fighters, depending on losses, transfers, and replacements. The Raptor squadrons had fewer craft to comprise them - anywhere from five to ten per squadron. However, with two personnel per Raptor, it brought the full number of people under the young CAG's supervision to just over one hundred on a slow week, upwards to one hundred and seventy at full staffing. All of these pilots required bi-weekly performance evaluations, training updates, and their egos massaged. Also among young Bishop's list of problems was the heavy frigate _Fairwood Common_, attached to Battlestar Group 45, who occupied his airspace constantly and caused largely nothing but frustration.

Additionally, the _Cathedral_ harbored two personnel shuttles, which were constantly running to and fro from each of the Twelve Colones, always requiring a Raptor escort, and not always informing Bishop of their intentions. And since the _Cathedral_'s crew of two thousand two hundred and seven required regular resupply, freighters came and went constantly - most of them Colonial Fleet, but some brave or crazy civilian contractors also made their appearance. All of which required Viper escorts from their jump points to the _Cathedral_ and back.

While all of this was going on, Bishop discovered that he also was responsible for - at all times, even as he slept - maintaining a consistent Combat Air Patrol around the airspace of the Battlestar Group, and maintaining a second squadron of Alert 3 fighters - named aptly for their requirement to be in the air within three minutes of being summoned.

Bishop had wasted no time in naming Angel as the Assistant CAG ("Frak you and your mother! I'm not doing that!" - "Too bad.") Angel, however, had been busy adjusting to his new role as the squadron leader of the most respected group of fighter pilots aboard the ship. To further hamper their efforts, they faced constant scrutiny from some pilots who were senior to them - some of whom held reserved feelings about two young bucks relatively fresh out of the academy elected to lead them. Despite the rumors of their accomplishments, they felt that experience was a better arbiter of the ability to lead rather than credentials. Because Bishop was sworn to secrecy regarding his experience, he was hard pressed to argue.

The CAG swung his legs over his bunk and rose quietly. Wire had departed the ship the night before with nothing more than a clap on the shoulder and a sardonic "good luck." Which meant his first briefing as the CAG was this morning. Followed by his regularly scheduled CAP. Followed by a meeting with the _Cathedral_ senior staff. Followed by another briefing.

"Gods, I don't know how Wire did it," Bishop muttered, finding his coffee mug.

"Lots of coffee," Angel mumbled, face down in his bunk.

"Thanks," Bishop sighed, taking a slow sip. He sank into the worn leather couch that had been brought in to the senior officer's quarters. He missed the Vigilante's squadron bunks and the flurry of activity that was seemingly always occurring. However, a fresh batch of replacements and transfers meant that the senior staff was kicked out. Even Bishop and Angel. Bishop quietly snickered at the thought, knowing Angel was now contending with a nearly-full squadron of seventeen seperate fighter pilots.

"Frak, the Third has CAP first thing, don't we?" Angel mumbled again, barely audible.

"You sure do," Bishop confirmed, rising from the couch and donning his flight suit.

"Gods damn it," sighed the young Captain. "Make the Fourth do it."

"The Demons," Bishop paused for a moment, hearing the distant roar of tyllium engines and the dull _thud_ of landing skids on the flight deck. "Just landed. You're out of luck, Angel. Get up."

Another deep sigh, "frak."

Bishop zipped up his flight suit, glancing down at his name plate on his left chest pocket. The gold-trimmed patch blaring "Major" stared back at him. He frowned momentarily before glancing over at his right shoulder - where the Vigilantes patch still remained proudly resting just below the Viper patch. This brought him a small measure of comfort as he poured his second mug of coffee and tromped out the door.

He gave a narrow-eyed glare at one of the many clocks hanging on the wall as he strode quickly to the CIC; his mug of coffee in one hand and a stack of briefing notes in the other. Zero-five-forty-two.

_Eighteen minutes._

Another thing that Bishop hadn't grown accustomed to was the increased amount of people - both enlisted crew and junior officers - springing to attention and pressing their backs against the bulkheads as he passed. Saluting was accepted aboard the _Cathedral_ as officers passed, however wasn't necessarily enforced. Persons of lower rank paid their customary respect by coming to attention and allowing the senior man or woman to pass unobstructed in the narrowed corridors of the Battlestar. Bishop was used to squeezing by others - or coming to attention himself. Now, with the triple-stacked silver chevrons over a silver "V" laid expertly on a background of gold, all screaming _major_ on his collar, he found that getting around the _Cathedral_ was considerably easier. If not slightly unnerving.

The Fleet Marines standing outside the door of the CIC took no exception to the protocols, either, as they snapped to attention, presenting their arms as Bishop strode by. He simply nodded in return, his hands occupied. He quickly trotted down the stairs, his eyes locking on the silver-colored head of Wiessbach.

"Bishop," Weissbach began. "Please tell me you have good news. It's zero-dark-whatever, and all of the coffee aboard this ship of the line cannot possibly make me tolerate any bad news. So please, for both of our sakes, tell me it's good news."

"Well, Commander," Bishop sighed, raising his eyebrows. "I don't have any _bad_ news. Will that suffice, sir?"

Weissbach sized up his extraordinarily young CAG momentarily, "I'll accept it. For now. That may change without notice. Walk with me. What do you got?"

Bishop fell in step with the commanding officer as he strode around the CIC, casting looks of general disapproval at no one in particular, "Sir, I was just curious as to your expectations from the air group today and for the next few weeks. Truthfully, sir, I've got the basics, but I'd like to know a little more before I get the birds in the air."

"As we all would, Major," Weissbach sighed, picking up his coffee mug. He tilted it backwards, finding no coffee in it. He glared at it, "You'll get a more formal briefing this afternoon. I know you have your turn at CAP. But I'm going to be direct here, Bishop."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"Do what you think is the right thing to do, and I'll back you on it. If I have a problem with the way you or the air group is operating, believe me, I'll tell you," the Commander nodded, looking at Bishop with a thoughtful eye. "You'll understand when you have your own Battlestar. You won't have time to micro-manage the various entities. If you do, you will not only drive yourself into a state of irreversible insanity, but you will also lose the respect of your crew. It's part of the trust we need to have in one another around here. I daresay you'll trust Angel to do his job looking after the Vigilantes, won't you?"

"Of course, sir," Bishop said, following the Commander up to the second tier of the CIC.

"As I trust you to look after the air group. So frakking vanish, Bishop, and get my frakking birds in the air, that's all I really care about at this juncture," Weissbach yawned.

"Aye, sir."

* * *

"_Attention on deck!"_

Angel's voice penetrated the low buzz of multiple conversations in the ready room like an Archer missile through thin sheet metal. Boots were planted on the floor as the Third and Tenth stood up.

"As you were," Bishop called halfway down the tiered staircase leading to the front of the room. The gathered pilots and ECO's retook their seats - the leather of their chairs sighing as they sat.

"Right," the CAG sighed, taking his place behind the podium. Bishop hardly allowed any trace of emotion to cross his face - however, his heart was racing and his palms began to sweat with nerves. "Everyone here knows me. Let's just take care of some housekeeping bullshit first. Inside this room, when there aren't any other senior officers, there's no need to call me 'Major' or 'sir.' Bishop is fine. Use your judgement on this, people, please. Second, I know I'm young. I know there are other people in this room qualified to lead this air group, but somehow I wound up with it. We're all going to have to live with it if this is going to work."

The CAG glanced around the room, happy to see that most people were either too shocked or too jaded to make any sort of comment. He took a breath before continuing, "Third, I will be the first to show you guys the footage from the little vacation that Angel and I just recently took as soon as I can. Until then, the answer is no. But if there is anything I've learned from it, it's that sometimes, it's the little guy who is right. So consider my door open for conversation. However, if you've got something to bitch about, follow the chain of command, please. Questions on any of that."

The gathered pilots were silent, most of them looking absentmindedly at their notepads in front of them.

"Good, let's get started."

Bishop raised the presentation remote control - lowering the lights and bringing the cover page of his presentation up on the screen behind him.

"Right, I see no need to replace Wire's standard CAP orders just yet. Stay with who you're comfortable with on your wing and we're not going to have any problems," he began, clicking the presentation forward absentmindedly. "We're to continue patrol of this sector, mostly maintaining a strong presence until we're told what to do next. Orders from the admiralty aren't expected in until late tomorrow evening, once they've had time to chew over whatever it is they chew over."

The pilots remained mostly silent, their heads pointed down at their notepads.

"And I know we say it almost every day, but please watch the landings, people, okay? I think we could all do without the knuckle draggers complaining about doing their jobs for a change," Bishop cracked, causing a snort of laughter from around the room. He clicked the presentation forward. The snickering from around the room continued, however Bishop ignored it, mostly glad the briefing wasn't a total bust.

"And I'm going to need us all to extend today by an hour -" a general groan of disapproval went up from the squadrons - "I know, I know, but my hands are tied here, guys, ok? So let's just do it and make the best of it. It'll be the Fifth's turn to take the long CAP tomorrow. It'll be balanced out."

Bishop clicked through the end of his presentation. Quiet snorts of laughter were heard again. The CAG furrowed his eyebrows and turned around to face the presentation screen.

Instead of briefing notes on the screen, a picture of his somewhat younger and clearly intoxicated self greeted him. The picture was from back in basic flight, when Bishop and Angel had thought it a good idea to take a joyride around the base - wearing only their fleet-issued undergarments. Bishop smirked slightly, and flipped back through the presentation - finding that it had been replaced entirely with photos of him in somewhat incriminating positions.

He turned around, smirking. "Nice one, guys."

The room _exploded_ in laughter - most pilots doubling over. Angel was no exception, as he held his sides and hyperventilated, tears forming at his eyes.

Bishop just smiled, realizing that at least the squadrons were frakking with him. If they weren't, he would begin to worry. Messing with people was a way of coping in the military. It offered both a stress relief and a way to test people. Cracking under a little bit of hazing showed a weakness that could be exploited in battle. Better to weed out those who couldn't take it early, rather than find out the hard way at a later date. Bishop was just as guilty of gluing duty lockers shut, stuffing gear bags full of fake arachnids, discharging compressed gas fire extinguishers on guys in the shower, and other miscellaneous debauchery and treachery.

"Skids up in ten, guys. Good hunting," Bishop folded his notes shut, smiling and shaking his head. The laughter continued as the aviators filed to the door, most of them clapping Bishop on the back as he passed by.

Bishop was cautiously optimistic as he strode to the flight deck. The inevitable engagement with the enemy would be the ultimate test of his leadership. However, for the time being, he felt that he may like his new role as the _Cathedral_'s CAG.

* * *

The third hour of the CAP proved to be much like the second. Which was like the first. During the first hour of the CAP, absolutely nothing happened.

_"And we have another hour after this?"_ Angel's voice sighed quietly into Bishop's helmet.

"Yes," the CAG replied.

_"I will literally die of boredom. Literally." _

"It could be worse," Bishop shrugged, glancing over to his right, seeing Angel resting his head on the side of the cockpit glass of his Viper. He smiled slightly, seeing the freshly-painted moniker on the side of his wingman's Viper - blaring his new rank and callsign proudly. He glanced down - barely making out the fresh paint on the slender side of his own craft.

_"Viper Zero-One, Bishop - _Cathedral_ control on Viper Tac."_

"Bishop, go," he replied, flipping his wireless frequency over so quickly that his mind almost didn't register the thought.

_"Sir, resupply transport coming in - jump in two mikes - coordinates ready, sir."_

"Roger, standby," he sighed, glancing around. "Any volunteers to take this one?"

The wireless remained silent.

"Gods, guys, don't all speak up at once," he laughed slightly. Transport escort ranked somewhere along the lines of cleaning the head. "C'mon, Angel."

_"Seriously?!"_

"_Cathedral, _Viper Zero-One, Bishop, clear to copy coordinates," he said quietly into the wireless - his voice not quite hiding his boredom.

_"Roger...coordinates sent, sir, escort transport in, landing clearance starboard pod authorized, niner for land."_

A small beep sounded from his dradis readout as his Viper received the jump coordinates from the Battlestar.

"Got it, Angel?"

_"Roger," _Angel replied. _"Shall we?"_

Bishop nodded. The pair swung the noses of their respective fighters around and increased their speed. Better to arrive early.

"So...what's new with Nina?" Bishop asked over their private frequency, watching idly as space cruised by his canopy.

_"Nothing, as usual,"_ his wingman replied. _"Haven't heard from her in a couple days...I'm not worried, though. That's normal. She said Tauron was pretty much the same in her last letter."_

Bishop nodded, humming slightly.

_"By the way. Where's that Marine you kind of had a thing wi-"_

"I didn't have a 'thing' with her, Garrett," he interrupted, rolling his eyes. The pair continued on toward the jump point, flying idly past the looming mass of the _Cathedral_.

_"Oh come off it, yes you did,"_ Angel replied, smirking at his friend.

Bishop paused, unsure of how to reply. He hadn't given Landry much thought since returning to the _Cathedral_. He found it strange, however, that he had no memory of seeing her around the ship since his return. But it hardly surprised him. It was a big ship, and he was suddenly very busy with things he didn't necessarily care to be busy with. It was entirely possible that he had just been missing her.

"Is it strange that I haven't really made an attempt to track her down since we've been back?" he asked candidly.

Angel was silent for a beat, _"Not exactly. You've been busy. But I think it'd do you good to go and see her. And do whatever it is you guys did - like talk...or stare at the bulkheads, I don't know..."_

"Frakkin' shut up," Bishop laughed. The two arrived at the coordinates sent from the _Cathedral_ without fanfare. It was, in all reality, a section of empty space. They split apart, giving the area around the jump site plenty of room. While FTL jumps were nearly foolproof, there was no telling when a slight error would occur. And, as the young men knew, a slight error in an FTL jump was, in all reality, not a slight thing at all.

Bishop slowly decreased his throttle and fired his forward thrusters, bringing his Viper to a halt. A quick puff of thrusters on his port nose and starboard rear, and he spun the fighter on its axis, allowing him to face the jump site.

_"Seriously, though. Go find her. I think she'd like to see you,"_ Angel continued, floating aimlessly half a kilometer away.

Bishop folded his arms and shrugged, "Sure. I mean, why not?"

_"You're not getting any younger."_

"Neither are you."

The transport arrived in the blink of an eye - the FTL jump flashing light for only perhaps a hundredth of a second.

Bishop's eyes quickly scanned the side of the transport - spying the proud designation of _Titan_ along her starboard hull.

"Colonial transport _Titan, _this is Viper Zero-One, attached to Battlestar _Cathedral_, callsign Bishop, acknowledge and respond," Bishop hailed in a monotone voice over the wide spectrum of colonial fleet hailing frequencies.

The transport, obviously not wishing for any trouble, quickly responded on the common hailing frequency.

_"Bishop - Caprica Trans Six-Forty-Five Heavy, callsign _Titan_ - please proceed with landing vector and frequency, standing by, sir."_

"Roger, standby," Bishop sighed, wishing he could rub his eyes through his helmet. He sent the landing coordinates to the transport, as he had done a dozen times previously.

_"Bishop, _Titan_, coordinates received, proceeding as directed."_

"Roger, switch to niner for land," Bishop replied. He glanced casually to his left, making sure Angel had assumed the escort position to the left of the bulky transport. Naturally, his wingman had assumed his position without a word of direction from him. Bishop knew better than expecting to direct the best pilot under his command. He pointed the nose of his Viper in the direction of the starboard landing pod of the _Cathedral_, and flipped back over to the private frequency he shared with Angel.

"You know, I haven't saw her since we got back," he confessed. "I mean, what if she's moved on or something? I think what we did is still tasting sour to some people in the fleet, you know."

_"So?"_ Angel replied. _"You've been working yourself to death. You probably have passed her half a dozen times in the corridors, but you were too self-absorbed and thick in your work to notice. And who gives a frak about what we did? They don't know. They weren't there."_

"You sure as hell haven't been accused of being tactful in your life, have you?" Bishop smirked.

_"Never once."_

Bishop pondered a moment as he watched the trapezoid-shaped opening of the landing pod widen slowly in front of him, "But...gods, I don't know, Angel...I'm sick of just hooking up with girls. It'd be nice to find something a little more permanent."

_"You did not just say that, Scott Mason. I refuse to acknowledge what you just said."_

"No, seriously," Bishop said, craning his neck to make eye contact with his wingman across the awkwardly wide bow of the _Titan_. "I mean, you kind of found something special with Nina, haven't you?"

_"That's different,_" Angel said, quickly assuming damage control of his words.

"I don't see how," the young CAG said plainly. "I mean, can't I have what you have?"

_"Like I said, Nina's different. Plus, who's to say that you can't have that with Corporal whatshername?" _

"I'm not saying I can't, it's just..." Bishop trailed off. "Maybe she's not that. I don't know. I just can't be certain."

_"Bishop, you're stuck in a holding pattern for your life right now, y'know that?"_ Angel stated.

"Maybe."

_"Bullshit. You are, and you know it."_

The _Titan_'s pilot brought the hulking transport in skillfully towards the landing pod - something that Bishop appreciated. It was always undesirable to give basic lading instructions to pilots unfamiliar to Colonial landing procedures. This pilot, whoever he or she was, was at least on top of it enough to know how to put the frakking thing on the deck.

"_Titan_, Bishop. Your vector is clear - my guys will stay out of your way, and you look good for land. Switch to niner, they'll take you from there," Bishop said over the wireless.

_"Roger, Bishop. Escort much appreciated. Can't be too sure nowadays."_

"Roger that, _Titan._ Thanks for coming out."

_"Anytime, sir. Good day."_

Bishop swung wide of the landing pod, mirroring the action of Angel.

"So what are you saying?" Bishop asked, forming back up with his wingman to the massive aft end of the _Cathedral_. "I'm stuck in a holding pattern? What the frak does that mean?"

_"It means that you're frakking hopeless, is what that means."_

"You need to be more specific."

_"You know exactly what I mean,"_ Angel said, glancing to his left, making brief eye contact with the CAG.

Bishop clenched his jaw, shaking his head.

_"I saw that."  
_

* * *

_"Viper Zero-One, One-One, and One-Niner, _Cathedral_ air, visual, take three-six-one, speed is yours, switch to niner for land - caution departure Raptor Eight-Seven-Niner below."_

"Zero-one, Bishop, roger, three-six-one, speed, niner for land, traffic in sight," Bishop replied, lining up his Viper for his one hundred and twenty seventh combat landing.

_"One-one, roger, same traffic."_

_"One-Niner, roger, same."_

The CAG expertly slowed his Viper, feeling the artificial gravity of the _Cathedral_ beginning to pull slightly on his Viper. He flipped the magnetic grip of his landing gear on. His Viper descended gently, perhaps a quarter of the way down the half-kilometer runway, touching down with as much care as a five-metric tonne space superiority aircraft could. Bishop carefully taxied over to an elevator as directed by a ground crew member in an exposure suit - wishing for a cup of coffee the entire way.

_"Viper Zero-One, _Cathedral _ground, good to see you, sir, continue course, welcome back, sir."_

"Zero-one, Bishop, roger, good afternoon."

_"Good afternoon."  
_

* * *

"Right, in a moment, I'll be there," Bishop said hurriedly, hanging up the wireless while simultaneously buttoning up his blue duty uniform. He gathered a stack of briefing notes up under his right arm and stormed out of the senior officer's quarters.

_Right, left, down two decks, left, forward for a few, down a deck, right, aft slightly, up a deck..._

Slightly winded, Bishop arrived at the enlisted Marine's quarters. He raised a hand and politely pounded on the bulkhead door.

A young Private, First Class, answered.

"Officer on deck!" the young man roared, snapped quickly to attention. Silence fell like a hammer in the quarters as Marines leaped to attention.

"As you were," Bishop sighed. "Private, a word, if you have a minute."

"Of course, sir," the PFC answered, genuinely confused at the notion of a command officer asking for a moment of his time. He followed Bishop into the hallway, closing the bulkhead door behind him.

"Is Corporal Landry available, at all? Perhaps someplace I can find her?" Bishop said, quietly, glancing around the corridor.

The young man - perhaps no more than nineteen - furrowed his brow, "Sir, Corporal Landry was transferred to the _Universal_ weeks ago. No one has heard from her since, sir."

Bishop sighed heavily, looking at the deck.

_Of course, Scott. Of course. You know that only you are so lucky. Congratulations. _

"Ah, my mistake. Thank you," Bishop nodded curtly to the young enlisted man, hurriedly returning the salute offered as he turned.

Bishop made his way slowly up towards combat planning, glancing up only to verify his direction of travel. It was as if someone had slapped him in the face, and then had laughed as he could not retaliate.

_Get any sort of attachment, this is what happens. You know better, Bishop..._

He tried to shake the feeling. To arrive at a senior staff briefing distracted would not prove to Bishop's advantage. He needed to appear undistributed, despite the fact that his subconscious continued a variable barrage of self-induced insults. He hated himself for getting attached, however slight the attachment might have been. He hated the fact that he couldn't _not_ have some semblance of feeling towards the young Marine. Bishop was furious with the fact that he couldn't be a stronger person who could resist such things that undoubtedly ended in such magnificent failure. The whole thing caused a very uninviting demeanor to surround the young Major.

"Something wrong, Major?"

Bishop looked up, realizing his brows were furrowed deeply, and his face wore a menacing frown that betrayed his years. He had arrived at combat planning quite unexpectedly, and had not assumed a neutral expression before walking through the door.

"No, sir, not at all," he replied, saluting the Commander. Wiessbach returned the salute, not quite buying the young man's reply.

"Let's get on with it, then," the Commander sighed, taking a seat.

Bishop seated himself at the conference table, looking around quickly. He had, admittedly, never been to a senior staff briefing before. Commander Weissbach sat at the head of the table, looking annoyed. To his right, the _Cathedral_'s Executive Officer, Colonel A.J. van Buuren, poured over documents and rubbed his forehead. Across from van Buuren, the ship's tactical officer, a young Lieutenant Colonel Bent Morrow. Seated next to van Buuren was the commanding officer of the _Fairwood Common_ - a man from Aerlon named Harold Dillon. Also making their appearances were department heads from fire control, maintenance, and communication, information technology, and medical.

van Burren stood, "In light of recent intelligence gathered, the Fleet has re-prioritized their high value targets. As we are not directly involved in the defense of one of the Colonies, this means we are, again, on the offensive."

Bishop kept a stoic face as van Buuren continued. He knew, though, that offensives meant a greater danger to his pilots. Especially in the way that the Admiralty had in mind.

"-several targets have presented themselves though our long-range satellite scans, several of which are within a few jumps of our current location. We'll need to look at each of these targets with input from Commander Dillon, Colonel Morrow, and Major Mason, and select our best option from here, sir."

"Very well," Weissbach murmured. "Dillon, what's your take?"

Commander Dillon scratched the stubble on the side of his face thoughtfully, "I don't see why our little battle group couldn't be of use again. Thanks to this new intelligence," he paused, purposefully avoiding looking at Bishop, "We may have a chance. I'm willing to put a stake from the _Fairwood_ in, if we know what we're doing."

Weissbach nodded, "Morrow?"

"Sir," the tactical officer replied curtly, without looking overly anxious. "In terms of ability, I don't think there's any question about what we can do, especially with the _Fairwood_. I find it rather strange, however, that we've avoided enemy contact for the past few weeks. Something big must have happened on their side of the fence. Something we don't know about. Either they're getting ready to open up a very large can of whoop-ass, or someone inside opened one up on them, sir."

"Indeed," Weissbach said, his expression neutral. "Major Mason, your thoughts?"

Bishop blinked, trying to hide his unease. The eyes of the senior staff around the table were locked onto him. He assumed a neutral expression and tone of voice, "Staffing of the squadrons is at an acceptable level, sir, and I believe that we have the caliber of pilots required to manage a respectable offensive in an all-out assault mode of attack."

"But you don't think we should do that, do you, Major?" Weissbach probed, his eyes narrowing.

Bishop hesitated, "It would be subjective to the target in question, sir. Every mode of attack has its place."

The room was quiet for a moment as brows furrowed. Colonel van Buuren broke the silence, "Mason, how old are you again?"

The CAG was taken aback. Bishop tried to discern the XO's question as hostile or out of genuine curiosity. He decided it was the latter, "I'm twenty-four tomorrow, sir."

"And you can play the game already. You're destined for greatness, son," van Buuren smirked. He stood up, "If you could all bring your attention forward, we'll begin with a list of possible targets..."

* * *

"The moon," Bishop said, lying in his bunk and staring at the ceiling. "It has to be the moon. It's just staring us in the face."

"Oh, yes," Angel replied, glancing up from a word puzzle he was making a halfhearted attempt at. "The moon, and the two basestars and frakking eight zillion Raiders. Are you mental?"

"No, I'm not. I think we can do it," Bishop said, thoughtfully, his eyes still locked on the ceiling. Pinned there were several enlarged satellite photos, each showing different Cylon positions and ships.

Angel tilted his chair back, looking at the ceiling, "We can do that outpost easily, Bishop. I mean, look, a few heavy transports, a squadron of Raiders. We'd jump in, unleash hell, and be done by lunch."

"No," Bishop shook his head, deep in thought. "We can do the moon and hit them where it hurts."

"How, exactly? The _Cathedral _and _Fairwood_ could probably hold their own against one Basestar, and that's on a good day, but two? And their Raiders? I mean, your confidence is inspiring, but-"

"Surprise, of course. Followed by a few very carefully placed punches," Bishop said quietly - his eyes locked on a single, large picture. It showed a very large, rocky orb with two Basestars formed in its orbit. "Can you hand me the other pictures of it?"

Angel furrowed his brow, handing the other pictures over. Bishop took them, shuffling through until he found the one he wanted.

"Here," Bishop almost whispered. "These things, what do you think?"

"Big tanks, so?" Angel said, narrowing his hazel eyes as he looked at the satellite picture.

"Big tanks store lots of stuff," Bishop mused, a smirk forming.

"Oh very good, Scott. In fact, brilliant," said the young Captain Emory.

"Shut the frak up. Think. Cylons don't eat. It's not food. They don't drink. It's not water. So the only thing they would need to keep in large quantities is-"

"-fuel," Angel finished. "Tyllium."

"Exactly," Bishop's smirk grew. Up until that point, he hadn't been quite sure of his instinct. He was hesitant to suggest such a daring raid - especially being so new in his post. However, the thought of taking out such a ripe target excited him.

"Okay. So we have a huge Cylon fuel dump. Fleet probably knows this already. But look, Bishop. Point defense turrets all around the frakking thing, plus the Basestars and however many squadrons of Raiders they carry - which is to say nothing of the possibility of an air wing on the ground," sighed the Third's squadron leader. "Nothing would make it through the defensive net, Bishop. It would cost us."

"If they presented a focused point defense, yes," Bishop said, his mind now racing. "You're right. Nothing would get through. Same with us. If we have one target, big or small, we focus our attack on it...however..."

Bishop stood quickly, discarding the close-up picture. He rifled through the other pictures before finding the one he wanted.

"There," he whispered, grabbing a pen and pointing. "The moon is in far orbit around the first planet closest to the star, there, which is still a ways away."

Angel leaned in, "You intend on using the star somehow?"

"What if..." Bishop said, pausing, seemingly stuck on a thought. "Angel. What do you know about solar sails?"

"Solar Sails?" Angel almost laughed. "They're antique. Used to launch deep space satellites back before we figured out FTL. They haven't been used in decades. Why?"

"So they're obviously big, right?" Bishop closed his eyes, attempting to visualize one.

"Massive," his friend nodded. "Each is about half the size of the _Cathedral._ They have to be in order to take advantage of the relatively weak forces of energy generated by what could be a very distant star. They're just too impractical to use anymore."

"But they were small enough to be deployed on satellites launched from a planet or moon, though," Bishop muttered. He quickly grabbed the close-up pictures and a white grease pencil.

Angel leaned in, watching as Bishop drew a handful of crudely drawn Raptors around the pictured moon.

"It's a damn good thing you decided to be a pilot and not an artist."

"Frak yourself, just watch what I'm thinking here."

Bishop then drew large lines emanating from the Raptors. "Our Raptor squadrons jump in - surrounding the moon and its outpost on all sides - literally everywhere. They'll pick up on it, but dismiss them initially. They'll be too spread out to make one focused attack, and one single Raptor making a run would be instantly blown to frak. But then...the sails are deployed. They're made of very, very thin anodized metal, correct?"

"Correct," Angel said, now genuinely curious.

"Deploying the sails completely surrounding the moon would create an instant bad day, because just like the anodized coating on our cockpit glass, the sails would reflect the light from the nearby star-"

"-and its radiation," Angel said, his eyes widening.

"-which we all know-"

"-completely fraks the dradis and other ranged sensors-"

"Right," Bishop nodded, his speech quickening. "So we pop those things off on the outer orbit of the basestars. They'll compensate, of course, but that will take a moment or two. We use the moment of distraction to insert a Viper squadron-"

"- you mean to say the Third," Angel sighed.

"In all probability, yes, don't get ahead of me here," Bishop continued, frantically, now drawing the _Cathedral_ and the _Fairwood Common_ on the picture. "We insert the Viper squadron to launch a fast and hard assault on the depot - with their targets being primarily the Tyllium storage tanks. By blowing them, we not only can cause the most damage to the outpost, but also take away an important part to their infastructure. At least in the sector. While they're doing that, the _Common_ and the _Cathedral_ will need to engage the Basestars - running and gunning. They'll need to lure each into a pursuit while simultaniously recovering the Raptors. Once the Raptor squadrons are aboard, we'll recover the Vipers and haul ass the frak out of there."

Angel sat back in his chair, folding his arms and staring intently at the marked-up picture Bishop had laid before them.

"What do you think?" Bishop said, his pulse racing.

"A lot of moving parts to this one," Angel sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Yes," the CAG sighed. "That's the drawback. Lots of things happening. It's going to be absolute mayhem."

"Of course, I really wouldn't expect anything less," Angel said quietly, a smirk forming. "So, I expect that once you get down to the surface of the moon -"

"Not me," Bishop interrupted, smirking slightly. "You."

Angel's face paled slightly, "Me?"

"Yes. You. I'll need to be with the Raptor squadrons, coordinating the sail deployments. You'll need to lead the surface assault. We're not going to have much time, and I can't be in two places at once."

"Oh, gods," Angel whispered.

"You'll be fine. I'll be right there to round up the troops with you as soon as you clear out," Bishop smiled at his friend.

"This is getting seriously complicated," Angel muttered, shaking his head.

"Yes, it is. I think it's time we ran it past the Commander."

* * *

A very thick and uncomfortable silence fell around combat planning, as Weissbach stared at the models before him, his hands planted on the side of the large, backlit table.

Bishop glanced nervously at Angel, who shifted his eyes momentarily, his face stoic.

Gathered around the table, van Buuren, Dillon, and Morrow looked on, each with a different expression. van Buuren's was one of disgust, Dillon's of confusion, and Morrow's of genuine excitement.

"Solar sails," Weissbach said slowly, in his trademark rumbling bass voice. "That is what's going to give us the edge over two basestars and a heavily fortified Cylon institution. Is solar sails."

Bishop felt instantly ill, "Theoretically, yes, sir."

Weissbach raised his eyebrows, looking up slowly, "Morrow?"

van Buuren interrupted, "Sir, you must realize-"

"AJ, shut up, you didn't know what a solar sail was until two minutes ago. Mr. Morrow, if you please," Weissbach sighed.

"Everything seems sound," Morrow said, adjusting his dark blue jacket and stepping forward, looking down at the table with a furrowed brow. "Using the solar sails as the Major suggests would, in fact, completely scramble any sort of electronic sensors or communication. However, I think the Major knows that there are going to be a couple issues with that."

Weissbach glanced at Bishop. His face, as did all the faces around the table, were cast in differing shadows due to the low ambient lighting of the room and the bright underside of the table. "Major?"

"We know that the unavoidable problem will be dradis. For them, and anyone on the surface. Which means that the pilots down there will be flying with their eyes only. This also eliminates automatic targeting. The fighters will need to fire their ordinance manually. Communication will also likely be spotty at best. Essentially, the pilots will be on their own," Bishop said in an even tone, glancing however slightly at Angel.

Angel kept a straight face as Bishop continued, "Speed and precision will be key. The _Cathedral_ and the _Fairwood_ can hold their own against the Basestars for some time, however it will also take some time to recover the Raptors, the strike fighters, and the defensive fighters. In short, we'll be using damn near every bird we have."

Weissbach frowned, deep in thought. He rubbed his chin and spoke, "But this target...to knock out their gas station would be decisive."

van Buuren cleared his throat, "Sir, with respect...the Major's plan is most definitely a daring one, and one that would prove indeed a decisive victory."

"Go on," the Commander murmured, his eyes still locked on the table before him.

The XO glanced momentarily at Mason. It appeared that he had since collected himself since the initial proposition. His disgusted expression had melted away into one of neutrality, "It's a large, large commitment of both equipment and more importantly, personnel. Major, have you given thought to casualty probabilities?"

Bishop felt a flash of emotion, "Of course, sir, you mean to ask me exactly how many of my people - my friends - may not come back from this?"

van Buuren inhaled somewhat quickly, "As officers, it's our duty to do so, I'm afraid. However disdainful of a business it may be."

The CAG nodded slowly before looking around the table, "The XO is right. Let's not bullshit. This may cost us. I anticipate casualties to be anywhere from fifteen to thirty percent."

His voice grew quiet with the last statement. Thirty percent almost thirty-five pilots. Faces that wouldn't show up at chow time. Voices gone from briefing. Personalities missing from around the card game.

"And do you feel that's accurate, Bishop?" Weissbach drew himself up, folding his arms and examining Bishop with a stern eye.

"I do, sir. However, I like to think that the pilots the _Cathedral_ has in her air wing are a little more talented than your average fleet Viper jock. It wouldn't surprise me in the least, sir, if everyone came home after laying down a good old-fashioned ass whooping on the Cylons," Bishop said plainly, his hands clasped behind his back.

There was a smattering of gruff laughter around the table.

Weissbach smirked, his eyes remaining on his young CAG. Bishop stood silently, knowing that the Commander was sizing him up - exploring the possibility of doubt within him. Of course he had doubt - however, he kept it hidden deep within him. He stood with his back straight and eyes locked on the Commander's, respectfully emanating an air of confidence and authority. He felt he owed it to the people gathered around to appear confident - to demonstrate he had faith in the mission, and the cause.

"I agree, Major," Weissbach said. "If this were any other Battlestar, a part of any other Battle Group, with any other air wing, I would be forced to scrub this. Fortunately, and unfortunately, we are the _Cathedral_. And the _Fairwood Common_. Comprising Battlestar Group Forty-Five, and we are the best for a reason. And to not demonstrate that from time to time is a misallocation of valuable Fleet resources. Let's see to it. The timetable will be arranged at Major Mason's discretion - however I don't think we will wait too long on this, will we, Major?"

Bishop's heart skipped about five beats as Weissbach approved his plan. He kept his emotion to himself, "I should think not, sir. If everyone is in accord, I believe we'll make our jump at nineteen hundred hours tomorrow. The moon will be in the planetary shadow, and allow us the cover of darkness, for whatever that is worth in space. It will also allow time for briefings as needed."

"Very well," the Commander nodded. "Let's do this."

* * *

"I thought I might find you here," Angel said, walking slowly into the observation lounge.

Bishop nodded, his eyes fixed forward. They were both dressed in their flight suits, gun belts, and ballistic vests. The launch was a mere hour away.

Angel walked slowly up and assumed the same pose as Bishop - leaning against the handrail with his forearms, staring blankly out into space.

"It's going to be fine, Scott. It's a good plan. This'll work," Angel said quietly, keeping his eyes forward.

"I don't think you'd feel the need to encourage me if you didn't have some doubt about it," Bishop replied.

Angel sighed, unsure of how to respond.

"Of course, I'd have doubts about something I planned, too," Bishop admitted, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head to the side, offering a slight smirk to his friend.

"Not just me, then," Angel smirked in return.

"Gods, Garrett," Bishop sighed. "Why is it now that I get sentimental about the things that I haven't yet done in this life?"

"Sentimental?" Angel asked. "What the frak is there to be sentimental about, Scott? You're the commander of an air group at _twenty three frakking years old_. Something that even the saltiest of Viper jocks never get to do. What's more is that you're the _Cathedral_'s CAG. And you've already done, frankly, one of the rowdiest things any pilot has done in Fleet history - classified or not. I'd say there's not a lot to be sentimental about."

"Well, when you put it like that, yeah, I've - _we've _ - built pretty impressive resumes," Bishop replied. "But don't you wonder - I mean, ever _really_ wonder. What's it like to do something more important than this?"

"What the hell could be more important than what we're doing now?" Angel asked, confused.

"Frak, Angel, you're going to make me look like a Viper jock gone soft here," Bishop smiled. "I mean something like finding someone special. Finding that one person in your life that you value above anything. And then maybe doing something as frakking crazy as starting a family - ensuring your legacy, you know? Leaving something besides stories, medals, and lessons learned for posterity."

"You're kind of freaking me out here, Bishop," Angel relented. "What happened to balls to the wall Bishop who shot first after shooting only to forget the questions he came to ask before he started shooting?"

"He's still here," Bishop smirked. "Have no doubt. But, haven't you ever wondered what it'd be like to, say, have a little girl who you could do no wrong by? To maybe be called 'daddy'? To have that one girl who you wake up to every morning - who you can't believe settled for your dumb flyboy ass? A son who, gods wiling, will be better than at anything? I mean, seriously, now. Haven't you?"

Angel's shoulders - wider than the average young man's - appeared to sag slightly. He turned around, leaning against the railing and folding his arms over his chest, "I have. Who hasn't?"

"So is it so wrong that I'm dwelling upon all this, and moreover the various situations all my people are in right now, just before we jump into some really rowdy shit?"

"No, Bishop, it's not wrong," Angel replied, raising his eyebrows and glancing at him with his hazel eyes. "It's not wrong at all. In fact, it's why you're in the position that you're in. Because you think about all of this makes you good at what you do. But you should also remember that. You're _good at what you do_. When you go out there, you show everyone what it is to be a pilot, you show us exactly what we do, and how to do it at a mastered level. And because of this personality you have going on, it just makes you all the better for it. But just remember. We're the best. And something like that you can't buy. So stop worrying. There's going to be plenty of time for you to do all the things you want to - just as soon as we get back from this little errand."

_"Action stations - Action stations. Set condition one throughout the ship - this is not a drill, prep for combat jump."_

Bishop nodded, smirking. Words weren't necessary between the two men to validate how important the conversation between them was. They both turned silently for the door.

* * *

Bishop fumed slightly at the thought of his Viper stuck inside of a cargo ship. He sat in his cockpit, his Viper humming gently on auxiliary mode, with his arms crossed. Although he knew that the addition of an FTL engine would completely frak the fundamental abilities of his particular Mark II Viper, he couldn't overlook the inconvenience of having to hitch a ride on something FTL capable.

He keyed up on the tactical frequency, "Ok, boys and girls, how are we lookin'?"

_"Tenth, green for jump."_

_"Second, go jump."_

_"Seven, green."_

Bishop felt the transport grind slowly off the flight deck and push forward. His Viper took up most of the space available in the cargo bay.

_"Bishop, Transport Five-Five, we're in the air, sir."_

"Roger," Bishop replied, trying to keep his voice even though his nerves. He flipped over to tactical, "Ok, guys, just like we talked about and just like we simulated. Jump in quickly, and deploy quickly. Try for as much uniformity as you can, but don't worry about making it perfect. Detach your sails once deployed and haul ass back. If you can safely take down enemy resistance, do so, but do not jeopardize your return. Speed is the key to the day. I don't want any heroes today. Good hunting. Jump on my mark...five, four, three, two, one...mark."

* * *

Angel quickly deposited a large amount of fumella leaves underneath his lip before donning his helmet. He felt the familiar rush of relaxation wave over him - however, he knew it was only an illusion. Only a farce. He was far from relaxed.

He glanced over the rail of his Viper, spying Bishop's crew chief.

"Neilson!" he yelled.

"Sir!" the young petty officer trotted up, his tools bouncing in his pockets. He bounded up the side ladder of Angel's Viper, allowing the pilot to hear him.

"You got this, right?" the pilot asked, wearing a concerned expression.

"Yes, sir!" Neilson roared over the sound of whining Tyllium engines. "Third out first, then the rest of the squadrons in succession! With respect, you frakking Vigilantes had better make those shots count, sir! We're completely out of Archers!"

Angel smirked, "You can count on it!"

Neilson smiled, nodding and thumping Angel on the head of his helmet before jumping off the ladder. Angel watched as the young man quickly pulled out a large marker from his tool belt and crouched over one of the _four_ Archer missiles bristling from under his wings. He laughed audibly, reading the message written on the tip of the missile:

_"Shove this up your frakking chrome toaster ass, motherfrakker!"_

"Squadrons, Viper Three-One. Third will load the tubes now, everyone else standby on Alert One. I'm not the CAG, guys - far from it. But I trust him. He knows what he's doing. Let's not let him down, okay? Everyone be fast. Be smart. Good hunting."

Angel closed his cockpit canopy and allowed the towing vehicle to load him to the tubes. He flipped over to the Third's tactical frequency.

"Guys - Angel. Everyone feeling ok?"

_"Gotta say, boss, I'm a little nervous,"_ Airgun replied.

_"That's no lie,"_ spoke Torro.

_"This might get a little hairy, but we're with you, Angel."_

"I know," Angel sighed, pursing his lips and forcing his hands not to shake. "Just be cool. Fly the way we always do and we won't have a problem. We're the Third, and we're the best. Just remember that, guys."

_"Well, maybe not Torro-"_

_"Hey, frak you!"  
_

* * *

Weissbach furrowed his brow in the bustling CIC, looking intently at the dradis. Activity buzzed around him, with wireless traffic being transmitted urgently, messages being broadcast throughout the ship, and dradis readouts humming quietly.

"Mr. Morrow, status on our Raptors?"

"Last jump completed, sir," Morrow replied quickly, glancing at the dradis. "Third is loaded and reports ready. Other squadrons standing by."

Weissbach nodded, glancing over at van Buuren. He whispered, "Last chance, A.J., I'll flip you for it."

van Buuren snorted as he picked up a heavy black phone, "Not a chance, sir."

Weissbach shrugged, "Your loss."

"All crew BSG forty-five, standby for combat jump, fire control, load all batteries and prepare for salvo fire, this is the XO," van Buuren smirked at the Commander as he gave the order.

Weissbach picked up a phone this time, "All hands, this is the Commander, stand by to jump on my mark...Five, four, three, two, one...mark."

* * *

Bishop's eyes blinked open, feeling the familiar sensation of coming out of a FTL jump.

"Ok, Five-Five, open her up!"

_"Door away, sir, good hunting!"_

"Fall back, guys, thanks for the lift!"

_"Don't gotta tell us twice, sir!"_

Bishop's hands flew with disturbing speed over his controls, bringing his Viper to life instantly. The engines caught and roared to life, hurtling blue flame out of their conical exhausts. Bishop released the magnetic hold of his gear and shot like a bullet from a gun into open space.

He snapped a hard six faster than a beat of his own heart, instantly lining up the moon in his cockpit glass. He smirked as he saw small pinpricks of light flashing in a complete sphere around the moon. The jumps were perfect. He slammed his throttle forward, making a hard run for the moon.

"Everyone here?"

_"Bishop - Stealth, I think so, sir!"_ reported the squadron leader of the Tenth - a man named Joe "Stealth" Gibbs.

"Outstanding! Prepare to deploy!"

_"Bishop, Stealth, Basestars are arming weapons and launching Raiders!"_

"Acknowledged, deploy! Deploy!"

The moon grew steadily larger in Bishop's cockpit glass. The scattered Raptors around the moon quickly jettisoned their cargo out of their large side doors. The packages, glinting in the light from the star, were caught in the moon's gravity and began tumbling slowly towards the surface.

_"Packages away!"_

"All Raptors, fall back to rally point Alpha and prepare to initiate the sails!"

_"Raiders inbound! ETA to contact thirty seconds!"_

"Roger!" Bishop cried, "Haul some ass people - _move!_"

The Raptors quickly spun about, laying tracks away from the moon as quickly as their twin engines would allow.

Twin flashes of light in Bishop's peripheral announced the arrival of the _Cathedal_ and the _Fairwood Common_.

"Frak!" Bishop swore, paling. "Too early! Too gods damned early!"

* * *

Angel shook the sensations of the FTL off and re-oriented himself. He glanced to his right, making eye contact with his shooter.

_"Too early! _Cathedral! _Launch now! I mean RFN!"_ Bishop's strained voice blasted through the wireless.

"Showtime!" Angel barked over the Third's wireless. He glanced to his right - thumbs up, salute.

* * *

"Open the sails! Do it!" Bishop yelled over the wireless.

_"Sir, it's too early! We won't get the whole coverage!"_

"I know, just do it! We're out of time!"

The boxy packages, each measuring about two meters square, had until now been floating in a loosely organized grid pattern - all falling slowly towards the surface in a gentle swoop. A small detonation occurred deep within the tightly bound boxes - numbering perhaps thirty in all.

Instantly, the sky above the moon was filled with the anodized gold of the yawning sails. Light from the star was reflected every which way - creating a dazzling show in the space around the moon. Had the situation not been laced with the distinct possibility of instant death, it would have been a beautiful, awe-inspiring sight. Bishop watched intently outside of his cockpit glass as the sails unfurled. The surface of the moon was instantly flooded with an intense light - making the Cylon outpost stick out like a towering tree in a flat plain.

_"Bishop - Angel - Third's in the air!"_

"Angel, we really frakked the timing on this one," Bishop said, wheeling around in his seat, locking his eyes on the tight formation of the Vigilantes making their way to the moon as fast as their Vipers would carry them.

_"Roger that, we'll make it work."_

"_Cathedral_ actual, Bishop," the CAG called, his brow furrowed.

_"Bishop, actual,"_ Weissbach answered.

"Sir, I hope you're ready for a fight. The Basestars have you locked," Bishop spoke plainly, watching as the mammoth Cylon capital ships abruptly altered course, having detected the presence of a singular Battlestar and the heavy cruiser.

_"Acknowledged, Major, we see them. Get you people in there and handle it. We'll be ok."_

_"-I got two squadrons! Scratch that - three! Mark three squadrons - Cylon Raiders! Angel, they've got you!"_

Bishop momentarily pondered the fact that he had never had a normal day in the Colonial Fleet where everything had gone according to plan. He shook his head slightly before horsing his Viper around.

_"Three squadrons. Great," _Angel sighed over tactical.

"We'll be fine. Get ready to blow their doors off," Bishop said. "Third, loose formation. Don't fly a straight track. We're not going to do them the pleasure of acknowledging them. Fly straight past, do not engage. The post is the target."

_"-he's not serious-"_

The big guns on the _Cathedral_ flared to life, launching punishing salvos in the direction of the approaching Basestars. The _Fairwood_, to everyone's general astonishment, steamed toward the two Basestars at full sublight. Bishop had a fleeting image cross his mind of Commander Dillon standing in his CIC, cigar in hand, barking to "run straight at the motherfrakkers."

_"Bishop, I thought you were staying up here!" _Angel called as he pulled alongside the CAG, risking a glance over despite their absurd speed.

Bullets hissed past their fuselages. Bishop glanced over, "I am. I'll try and create a mess for you guys, get you a hole to fly through. You'll have to take it from there."

Angel swallowed hard, realizing that Bishop was going to attempt the nigh impossible yet again, _"Roger."_

_"-ten seconds!"_

Time began elongating again. To Bishop, it appeared that his hands were moving at a frustratingly normal speed. In reality, his left hand flew over the dradis control, changing the targeting protocols for the four Archer missiles locked securely under his wings.

_Four target spread..._

Four brightly lit boxes locked on to the four closest Raiders in range of Bishop. He pressed the "fire" button on his joystick without a second thought.

The missiles shook Bishop's Viper violently with their discharge as they raced off ahead of the superiority fighter. Their paths instantly interwove in maddeningly confusing patterns as the Raiders broke formation, sensing the missile lock and launch the instant it happened.

"Go, guys, go!" Bishop barked over the wireless as he broke high, spewing withering bursts of fire at the scattering Cylons. The four missiles had hardly caused a concern for the majority of the fighters closing in on the Third. However, the Raiders who had broken off to give chase to Bishop would suffice to to just that.

Angel narrowed his eyes, looking for an opening as Bishop's salvo of missiles found their targets. "Find the holes, guys - push through!"

Bishop craned his neck upward as he rolled above the fray - seeing the Third race through the wave of fighters. Just as quickly, he glanced behind his fighter, seeing a trailer of no less than seven Raiders. _Perfect._

The CAG dove quickly back toward the formation of Raiders, keeping the throttle pinned. He smirked as he watched the group of Raiders scatter slightly as the group of Vipers blew past them as fast as they could possibly travel.

* * *

Angel's Viper, now caught in the slight gravitational pull of the moon, vibrated strongly as the engines fought to keep a single plane of travel.

"Everyone through?!" he yelled, looking around wildly.

_"most everyone!"_

"Make for the surface - find a hole in the shields! Go!"

Angel looked up quickly, spying a gap in the overlapping solar shields. He nosed his Viper towards it, the rest of the Third in close pursuit.

* * *

Bishop, happy to see at least the dozen or so pinpricks of light racing towards the moon, quickly re-focused his attention at the defense of the _Cathedral_.

"_Cathedral_, Bishop, the Third's on their way, can you get the Raptors back home?"

_"Bishop, Actual, that's affirmative for now! Send them this way!"_

"Roger," the CAG replied, looking quickly behind him. The seven Raiders were still closing quickly. He nosed his way towards the pursuing squadrons. "Ok, Stealth, you with me still?"

_"More or less, sir!"_

"Whatever you guys have left, auto-target for the Basestars - we might get lucky and get a shot through - launch the missiles and get back to the nest ricky-tick!"

_"Roger!"_

Bishop's Viper lurched suddenly to the left as his port wing absorbed a vengeful spray of bullets from the pursuing Raiders. Alarms whistled shrilly.

"Shut up," Bishop sighed as though speaking to his Viper, silencing the alarms.

Stealth's voice came over the tac, _"OK, you heard the guy, lock, fire and forget. Fire as she bears!"_

Archer missiles sprayed ad-hoc from the three dozen Raptors scattered around the sky. The boxy, dark-colored multirole vehicles diligently spun about as they fired, their engines redline.

The loose scattering of missiles instantly created havoc with the Cylon defense. Raiders broke away from squadrons, intentionally flying in front of missiles in order to save damage to their home Basestars.

_Suicide runs to save the ships_ Bishop pondered momentarily.

The defensive nets surrounding the Cylon capitol ships were instantly alight with missiles impacting the wave of flack cannon fire. It looked like all parts of a grand finale of a fireworks show happening within the course of seconds.

Bishop blinked in the bright lights - confirming that indeed, a few missiles had made their way though and had slammed with prejudice against the gleaming sides of the Basestar duo. Flame belched out of the jagged holes - looking like someone had taken a hammer to a can of rations.

"Angel - Bishop, talk to me!" Bishop called over Viper tac.

Static was the reply.

Bishop quickly brought the nose of his Viper about, and squinted at the surface of the moon. The sails had fully deployed - and were floating slowly, lazily in a loose grid. Bishop saw a scattering of Raiders, but no Vipers.

"It's up to Angel, then," he whispered to himself.

* * *

"Watch the deck!" Angel screamed, his eyes widening to an unnatural circumference as the surface of the moon instantly filled his windscreen.

He grabbed the joystick with both hands and pulled back as much as the mechanics of his fighter would allow. The nose of his Viper shot skyward, however the fighter on the whole continued to plummet towards the powdery surface.

The dozen or so other Vipers mirrored their squadron leader's maneuver, fighting the gravity of the moon with vehemence.

Angel's heart raced as the tips of his downward-sloping delta shaped wings scraped the surface of the moon - creating an instant cloud of dust. But the bone-crunching impact didn't come. His fighter shot forward - barely a meter above the surface.

_"Little close there, boss!" _came the laughing voice of Torro, who was undoubtedly laughing in disbelief.

_"Thought we were all lawn darts!"_

The wireless traffic was laced heavy with static. Angel glanced at his dradis - which he determined quickly to be useless.

"Okay, guys! Target's close, dradis is out! Arm for manual fire and wait! Wait until I fire! Do not fire early, for frak's sake!"

_"Roger!"_

_"Got it!"_

Angel manually armed the four Archer missiles bristling from under his wings and focused his attention forward. They flew dangerously low and fast - hugging the terrain of the moon. Angel knew that the Cylon air defense guns would be looking to manually pick out targets of opportunity the moment they were sighted.

Which was why Angel looked skyward with curiosity when the whole of the distant Cylon outpost's guns opened up with fury. There were no targets in the sky, excepting -

"The sails! Gods almighty! The sails! They're on to it!"

* * *

_"Bishop, Actual - is that base gone yet?"_

"I don't know, sir!" Bishop replied, damning the pursuing fighters behind him. He ran through a series of boxed evasive maneuvers to buy himself some time. "I don't have any idea what's happening down there!"

_"We're seeing heavy anti-air from the surface! What - aaaugh!"_

Bishop glanced up, seeing a salvo of heavy ship-to-ship fire _slam_ into the sides and top of the _Cathedral_. The CAG winced, knowing the Battlestar could only absorb so many broadsides from a Cylon Basestar.

_"-shop, Actual, you know we cant take much more! We'll do our best!"_

"Roger, sir, we just need more time!"

_Anti-air fire from the surface?_ Bishop thought, puzzled. A glance toward the moon told him all he needed to know.

One of the sails, spanning over five hundred meters in length, had instantly been shredded full of holes. It began a slow, graceful collapse in on itself.

_"Cathedral_, Bishop, our secret's out! They're shredding the sails!"

_"We see it, we're out of time!"  
_

* * *

Angel's eye spotted a gleaming prick of light on the horizon.

"Tally on the outpost! One minute!" he yelled over the tac.

_"Roger, tally!"_

_"Tallyho!"_

_"Tallyho, I'm in!"_

Angel glanced at his dradis again, mostly out of habit. His concern grew. Contacts began flashing on and off the screen. He glanced skyward, seeing the furious barrage of fire being launched skyward. The sails were being punched full of very large holes. Time was short.

_C'mon_ Angel wished. _C'mon...  
_

* * *

Had Bishop not been entirely distracted by the number of things happening at once, he would have been annoyed at the sensation of time slowing again. He looked around his fighter, noticing that he now was traveling at an absurdly slow speed - or so it seemed. He felt as though he could get out and walk faster than he was flying.

He looked upward, seeing the _Fairwood Common_ splitting the difference between the two Basestars. He marveled at the absolute insanity of the maneuver. The guns and missile ports on the sides of the frigate fired constantly - spewing out as much punishment as the heavy frigate was taking.

On the port side of the _Common_, and on the starboard side of the opposing Basestar, the _Cathedral_ swept in, taking the opportunity to lay punishment on the Cylon ship now sandwiched in between the two Colonials. The most furious exchange of heavy weapons fire Bishop had ever witnessed occurred - with massive forces being exchanged blow-for-blow.

In the mix, of course, were the rest of the Vipers that the _Cathedral_ had to spare. Bishop almost smiled slightly at the talented flying he was witnessing. His men and women flew tight with their respective wingmen, deftly weaving in, out, and around the fray - using everything to their advantage. The situation almost looked optimistic.

Just as suddenly as the sensation of passing time slowed, it quickly crash-landed back to full speed as an exploding warhead tossed Bishop's Viper completely off his flight plane. His helmeted head snapped quickly to the side, smacking hard off the cockpit glass.

Stars flashed momentarily in front of the CAG's eyes. He blinked furiously, shaking his head. He felt his heartbeat pounding deep within his skull to the tempo of the pain that throbbed. He ignored it. The urge to gain control of his fighter was too strong to give credence to whatever else his body was experiencing. His training screamed one thing at him: _get control_.

In the span of a second, Bishop determined the spin (axial) and fired his thrusters accordingly, shutting down his engines as he did so. After a two second burn of thrusters, he slammed his throttle forward, righting his Viper. He oriented himself to the _Cathedral_, spinning to bring the ship upright again in his view.

_"Bishop! You ok?!"_

Bishop recognized the voice of Eightball - appropriately attached to the Aces 'n Eights. He shook his head, blinking hard again, "I'm fine - little banged around, I'm ok!"

Eightball buzzed Bishop's nose, spiraling as he did so. Bishop glanced up long enough to give a thumbs-up, and receive one in return.

"Can someone please tell me what the frak is happening on that frakking moon?!" Bishop barked, wheeling around furiously in his cockpit, trying to gain sight of it.

* * *

Pieces of solar sails came crashing down in glorious ribbons of anodized gold around the speeding Vipers - making it seem as though they were racing through heavy, flowing curtains on a massive theater stage.

Some pieces were actually being _ caught up_ on the wings, tails, and fuselages of the Vipers of the Third Viper Squadron - making the nimble superiority fighters look almost angelic as they skimmed across the surface of the moon.

Angel's hazel eyes focused on one thing, and one thing only. The towering storage tanks containing millions of gallons of Tyllium grew steadily larger in the front windscreen of his cockpit glass.

_"They see us!"_

The perimiter point-defense and anti-aircraft guns instantly stopped their skyward assault on the diversionary sails. Forty millimeter bullets began to rain down upon the Vigilantes.

"On me, guys!" Angel barked over the wireless. He pulled his joystick back, launching himself skyward. The squadron followed.

Angel knew that repositioning the guns would take a moment or two too long. He counted to three before killing all power to his engines and rolling a hard six - pointing his nose directly at the surface. He slammed the throttle forward again, repeating the meanuver that had brought him to the surface.

He inhaled deeply, holding his breath as he lined the nose of his fighter up with the very center of the largest cylindrical tank he could find. Angel loosed his missiles.

_"Fire!"_

Forty-eight Archer missiles rained down from the sky above the moon. The Cylon guns were, as Angel had predicted, slow to respond. The few seconds were all that they needed.

As soon as the missiles were away, Angel rolled a six again, knowing that the resulting explosion would be nothing short of catastrophic.

"Time to go, boys!" he yelled, craning his neck to watch behind him.

_"Great idea!"_

Angel's Viper shook violently as it struggled to escape the gravity of the moon. Angel quietly considered what would happen within the next two seconds.

He knew Tyllium was unique in its ability to combust without oxygen. Its chemical makeup made it in itself an oxidizer. The other component of the fuel was extremely reactive to shock and fire. There were fewer things known to humankind that were as dangerous as the fuel - excepting, of course, nuclear weaponry.

The Cylons weren't so pretentious as to ignore the dangers of the fuel. They kept the fuel in tanks mindful to its explosive properties. The sides of the tanks were meant to be strong, whereas the tops were flimsy - the idea being that an explosion would went towards the sky. It was an old design - dating back to fuels refined from organic materials.

What had been overlooked in the design was the possibility of a missile punching through the top and detonating within. Thought certainly had not been given to forty eight missiles doing the exact same thing.

The resulting fire and explosion lived up to every expectation. The entire hemispherical side of the moon was instantly awash in a bluish-white flame. Rock, dust, and bits of what was the Cylon outpost spewed into space.

* * *

_"Ho-ly SHIT!"_

A blinding white flash filled the peripheral vision of every pilot in the sky. Bishop spun, looking towards the moon.

"Atta boy, Angel!" he yelled jubilantly, pumping a fist as best he could in his cramped cockpit.

_"Can we go now, Bishop? I mean, it's not like we're not having fun..."_ Angel's sarcastic voice scratched over the wireless as the Third cleared what was left of the tattered solar sails.

"That's affirm! Full recall, combat landings! I want skids on the deck right now! Actual, Bishop!"

_"We see it! Get your people home! We need to go!"_

_"All fighters - Cathedral air - all checkers are red, emergency combat landings, combat jump immanent, get back here!"_

"Let's go, people!" Bishop barked, banking his fighter hard to the left. It groaned in protest - one of his aft port thrusters having been blown away.

The Cylon presence had obviously noted what had happened on the moon. Bishop watched intently, waiting for a reaction.

What he saw completely dumbfounded him. Half the Cylon force split away from the main, spiraling towards the retreating Colonials. The other half made for their own wounded Basestars.

_What the frak..._

Bishop had never known Cylon Raiders to operate under anything but a single objective. This was a blessing and a curse. It provided a measure of predictability, but also proved to be a problem in terms of sheer numbers. Now, to see Raiders taking on two different modes confused Bishop.

_"Bishop-!"_

"I see it!" Bishop replied, heeding the warning from Angel. "Anybody have ammo left?"

_"Not really."_

"Whatever you got, just keep them entertained, but don't waste any time! Get on board!"

_"Indian run it?"_ Angel asked innocently.

"Do it!" Bishop said, his face alight. "Line up!"

The scattering of Vipers quickly formed into loose lines, making a beeline for the _Cathedral_.

_"Go!"_

The lead fighter of the lines, on the order, spun quickly, slowing as the Vipers behind them flew past. As they turned and slowed, they opened up with their guns. As the loose line of fighters passed, the process repeated. Bishop couldn't suppress a smirk as he watched his people perform the maneuver flawlessly.

It wasn't enough to decimate the opposing Raiders, but it was enough to deter potentially devastating strafing runs.

Debris from the moon began to rain in, intermixed with incoming fire from the Raiders and the occasional pot shot from the retreating Basestars. Bishop was frustrated that the Cylons wouldn't commit to a strategy. It made planning his strategy that much more difficult.

"Angel - you guys back yet?" he sighed.

_"Coming in now - keep the door open!"_

Bishop purposefully swung wide - keeping his turns to the starboard side. He was relieved that the pressure was relenting some - but also mindful that the tide could change instantly. He took a moment to glance at the _Cathedral_ - and attempted to keep his composure.

The proud ship of the line showed nearly half a dozen gaping holes along her hull, some still smoking. It had taken a hard beating. Some of the porthole lights were flickering - along with the usually brightened lights of the landing pods.

"All squadrons - Bishop - break it off and get on deck. Party's over," Bishop called on the wireless, swinging wide around the fray. It was mostly a formality - most fighters had already lined up on final.

Angel pulled up alongside Bishop as he lined up for final. A quick glance around told Bishop that they were the last two in the sky.

Bishop glanced over at Angel - seeing his Viper covered in dings and the dark grey dust of the moon. And - strangely - the tips of his wings appeared to be sheared off.

Angel, glancing at Bishop, couldn't help but notice the CAG's left wing, again, torn to shit. His Viper appeared slightly shaky. He assumed, correctly, that Bishop had lost a maneuvering thruster.

_"How was your day?"_

"Oh, you know," Bishop replied, flaring his nose up slightly as his rear skids touched down lightly on the deck. "The usual. Yours?"

_"About the same,"_ Angel replied as his Viper skidded to a halt behind the helter-skelter mess of fighters scattered over the landing deck.

"_Cathedral_, this is the CAG, all birds are home - let's get out of here," Bishop said quietly over the wireless, sweat dripping into his eyes.

_"Roger that, Bishop. Glad you're home."  
_

* * *

Bishop shuffled slowly away from the hangar deck, carrying his helmet in his hand. He ran his free hand through his soaking wet hair, sighing deeply.

Nine was the number. Nine pilots had been lost. Bishop hadn't known all of them. But he knew their callsigns, and their voices on the wireless. Muskrat, G-Bit, Waffles, Arclight, Python, Chip, Switch, Keyboard - and finally, to Bishop's horror, Airgun.

"It was quick," Angel had said, his eyes burning holes in the flight deck floor. "Raider tagged him straight in the engines. Fragged before he even knew what happened."

Casualties were to be expected. Bishop knew that. Everything had its price. Yet he felt a deep amount of personal responsibility. It was _his_ plan. He had formulated what had ultimately been the last offensive nine of his pilots would ever fly on. He wandered aimlessly in the general direction of the CIC, feeling as though he had blood on his hands.

The acrid smell of smoke filled the corridors, not quite being filtered out by the ship's life support systems. Many people with minor wounds hurried about - the damage control efforts ongoing since their jump to safety.

Bishop's eyes never left the ground as he walked slowly upward. The crew he encountered still pressed themselves to the walls, some saluted. He couldn't bring himself to acknowledge them without an overwhelming sense of guilt.

"Scott?"

He stopped dead in his tracks. It was uncommon for him to hear his given name. In fact, he tried momentarily to remember the last time someone had called him anything besides "Major" or "Bishop."

"Scott...is that you?"

He turned slowly, raising his eyes. His heart involuntarily skipped a beat.

"Emma?" he whispered, barely believing his eyes. Landry stood in front of him, despite everything his mind told him. "Um...excuse me...Sergeant."

He almost smiled, seeing her walk towards him. Her face was stained with soot, and her hair was askew. She looked exhausted. Her eyes, though, shone in the artificial lighting of the corridor. Her rifle rested by her side. Her hands - small by comparison - reached out and touched Bishop's flight suit despite herself.

"It's really you," she whispered, looking at his face with wonderment.

"And...you," Bishop said quietly, soaking in the sight of her. "You...you look good."

"So do you, Major," she replied, quietly, eying the insignia on his collar. "How...how did it go?"

"We lost some guys," was all he could say. He couldn't call the operation a success. He wouldn't.

They stood for a moment longer, silently staring. Wordlessly, Bishop dropped his flight helmet with a crash as she stepped forward, the heels of her small boots leaving the ground as they enfolded each other. She held his neck tightly, burying her face in his chest. He, in turn, rested his head against the side of hers, his arms circling her torso, pressing her into him. The grenades, flashbangs, and other equpment she carried on her vest dug into his ribs as he held her tightly. He didn't care. Their gun belts tangled within one another. They both smelled of smoke and sweat. Some of their muscles shook from exhaustion.

Neither of them could bring themselves to let go. Neither one of them understood why. It seemed unthinkable, though, to let go. To let each other go would be to let the moment go. To let the moment go would be to let perhaps the last remaining moments of peace go. To let the peace go would be to let their lives go. They hung on with desperation - each of them lost, but content to be so. If nothing else, they held on for the sake each other.


	10. Chapter 10

Once again, reader, I must take a moment to thank you for stopping by to evaluate the latest installment in the story of Mason, Emory, the Vigilantes and the _Cathedral_. If, by chance, you were waiting for this, I do offer my most humble apologies. I seem to be locked in a struggle to maintain a balance of sorts, with juggling life, work, and the story. As always, though, to provide the next segment in this saga gives me great relief, and moreover, inspiration to get working on the next part. As I keep promising you, dear reader, this story is a long way from over. To those who have taken their time to read and review this story, I offer my most sincere and humble thanks. It is _you_ that I write for. Even if you are the one reader among thousands in this diverse and rich forum of imaginative and brilliantly written works to take your valuable time to evaluate my work - I will continue writing, just for you. You make it worth it. I respectfully submit now, for your approval, the next chapter in the story of the _Cathedral_.

* * *

10.

"I guess I'm just surprised to see you here," Bishop smiled over his cup of steaming black coffee.

"The _Universal_ was just a temporary thing," Emory smiled, encircling her cup of coffee with both hands. The steam rising from both their cups went unusually high in the still air of the cafeteria. One of the hits taken from the engagement had somehow affected the ship's environmental controls. Parts of the _Cathedral_ - such as the cafeteria - were freezing cold. Others - including the senior officer's quarters - were almost uninhabitable due to the heat.

"Well," Bishop said after a sip of coffee. "I'm surprised...but glad you're back."

"Why?" she smiled at him, fishing for a response.

"I guess I don't rightly know," the CAG said quietly, shrugging. "I just do."

Landry smiled again, the sides of her face reddening slightly.

Barely two days had passed since the incident. Bishop had been through two full debriefings, one for the Battlestar Group, and one over closed circuit satellite to Fleet, detailing the course of the engagement. The whole thing - a battle lasting hardly ten minutes - was dissected down by the second and analyzed closely. Most people around the ship and the fleet had agreed that Bishop's plan had been a resounding success. Admiral Schaeffer had sent his personal regards to the crew of the _Cathedral_ and Bishop in particular for orchestrating such a vital blow.

However, Bishop still wrestled with the fact that he had lost pilots. He had been tested and prepared for such an eventuality back in War College, and had passed every exam with exemplary marks. But as he realized, just because he could organize a plan and execute it, did not necessarily mean that his conscience could do the same. He quietly wondered if this made him an ineffective - or worse - a weak officer.

"Bishop!"

The young Major lifted his head up, glancing toward the cafeteria's entrance. A large part of the air group stampeded in - lead by Angel.

The buzz of conversations died slightly upon seeing so many aviators in one place. Crew members looked on curiously.

"Hey!" Angel clambered up on a chair, trying to make sure he had everyone's attention. "_Hey!_ Shut the frak up!"

Silence fell quickly. Crew members stared, some of them looking perturbed at having their chow time interrupted.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Angel looked around, suddenly nervous. "If you'll please direct your attention to the _Cathedral_'s CAG - Major Scott Mason. He's sitting right here!"

"What in the sweet chocolate frak are you doing, Angel?" Bishop muttered.

"Good news," replied Angel quietly. The Captain raised his voice again, "In the most recent engagement, Bishop scored three confirmed Cylon Raider kills!"

A smattering of applause and raised glasses was the reply.

"With those kills," Angel continued, his Caprican voice booming across the mess hall. "Brought his official kill count to _sixty-eight_ _separate kills_. The previous record was sixty-six - _fleet wide_! Crew of the _Cathedral_ - I give you the top gun of the Colonial Fleet - Major Scott 'Bishop' Mason!"

Bishop's mouth opened in shock. Landry beamed at him, clapping furiously. Quite suddenly, he was drenched in moderately priced beer. Cheers rose from the mess hall - crewmen and women raised their glasses and banged their fists on the tables, creating a din comparable to a game-winning goal at a pyramid game.

"Congratulations, sir!" Torro beamed, his olive-skinned face shining as he forced a massive stein into Bishop's hand. The young man turned, raising his own glass, "To Bishop!"

Bishop smiled slightly, taking a small sip of beer after toasting the room. The stein was a creative piece of art - crafted from the sheet metal of one of the very first Vipers to ever serve aboard the _Cathedral_. The aviator who held it in his or her possession always was the recipient of approving nods and smirks around the ship and her varying ports of call.

The buzz died slowly, with many coming up to share a drink with the CAG and the pilots. Bishop was happy to see his aviators mingling with other members of the crew. He knew it wasn't always the case. On many other Battlestars, the pilots often hung out by themselves. While this was mostly true on the _Cathedral_, Bishop tried to remind the men and women under his charge that the primary function of the Battlestar - launching and retrieving strike fighters and other aircraft - was supported by an entire network of men and women aboard. If one portion of the finely tuned machine failed, the entire operation consequently failed. Bullets simply did not load themselves into the Vipers, and food did not magically appear on its own. Spare parts did not machine themselves.

The CAG drank slowly, accepting the handshakes and back slaps. Although his victory felt hollow to him, he allowed the cavorting to continue. A small part of him reminded him that such opportunities were limited in the times they bore witness to. His guilt silently ate at him as he watched his friends smile and converse with each other. They deserved better than their lot - even though they had signed up to serve with a clear conscience.

He smiled at Landry, who looked at him with a mixed expression of caring and admiration. He resolved, if nothing else, to attempt to give the people gathered around him another chance. Whatever their chance would lead to, Bishop couldn't fathom. But they deserved at least one more.

* * *

"Repairs are going as steadily as they can," van Buuren sighed. "Simply put, sir, there's just some things that are going to need dry dock to fix."

The air inside the conference room was almost difficult to breathe. Heat and humidity weighed heavily on the wool uniforms the senior staff wore. Weissbach sat at the head of the table, his top buttons undone on his jacket.

"We obviously can't retire and jump to dock," the Commander sighed. "That would leave only one Battlestar not committed to orbital defense. Commander Dillon, what's the status of the _Common?_"

Dillon looked as though he hadn't slept in days, "Honestly, it's pretty shitty. We've got a lot of the same problems. The crew is pushing through, but they're tired. As am I. And I daresay, the crew here as well."

"I have to agree, sir," Morrow said in a low voice, his face glowing with perspiration. "The crew is performing admirably, sir. But -"

"But this war has dragged on for long enough, and we're sick and tired of it," Weissbach finished. Silence fell heavily in the room. Broad shoulders sagged around the table as hardened, narrowed eyes stared downward.

"Let's not bullshit," the Commander continued. "If any one of us knew a way to end the war tomorrow, we would do it without a second thought. But I don't know. And none of you do, either. Hell, Admiral Schaeffer himself is fresh out of ideas, if I may say so myself."

Bishop swallowed somewhat hard. To hear the Commander speak of Schaeffer in such a way unnerved him slightly.

"If we're going to break this endless cycle of action and reaction, it's going to take something different. Gentlemen, I want to know _who_ our enemy is. _What_ are they thinking? _What _is their motivation?"

"Sir," van Buuren spoke, "The way you ask those questions almost imply that the Cylons are...well, personified."

"Indeed," Weissbach nodded. He glanced about the table as he wiped his brow. "Is it so hard to fathom? Their intelligence? _We_ created them. Someone, something is calling the shots. They aren't simply a collection of machines programmed to kill. Sure, the chrome jobs and Raiders might be, but _who_ over there is programming? Gods damn it, _something_ is making them fight us. Major Mason, would you venture to guess that the Raiders are evolving?"

Bishop blinked and thought for a moment, "Evolving would be an accurate word, sir. If they didn't evolve - if they didn't learn - it would be easy for us to kill them. They would approach each tactical situation with the same strategy. I don't think it's a question of their intelligence, sir."

"Go on," the Commander cradled his chin in his hand.

"It's an over-simplification to simply look at the Cylons as a collection of spare parts programmed to kill," Bishop said, standing. His duty uniform was absolutely stifling in the hot room. He loosened the top button as he continued, "Like or not, they're an intelligent race. We're no longer alone in the universe. It's a concept that I struggle with, as I imagine a lot of you do, as well."

"It's something we all know, Major," Dillon nodded grimly. "Difficult, as you say, but a fact that we've known nonetheless for years. What do you suggest we do?"

"I trust that your question isn't Machiavellian in nature, sir," Bishop replied quietly.

"Certainly not," Dillon massaged his temples. "We're all out of ideas."

"As am I, unfortunately," the CAG relented. "I just can't help but think that there's a group - perhaps similar to the one we're in now - making decisions, calling shots, whatever. There has to be a command structure. And it would probably make us all lose more than a little sleep should we come to discover it, and how similar it probably is to our own."

"I think we already are losing enough sleep, Bishop," Weissbach cracked. Quiet snorts were heard around the table. The Commander looked up at the senior staff, "The young man's right, of course."

Sighs of frustration were scattered around the table as the tired minds attempted to make sense of the plight. Bishop folded his arms, leaning against a bulkhead. His gaze bored holes into the decking, mirroring the frustration shared by all.

_Of course their system would be redundant_, Mason thought to himself. _Angel and I take out a major command ship, and that pokes their eye for maybe a day or two, but to think that it would be the deciding factor...Scott, you idiot..._

"_Action stations! Action Stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship! This is not a drill! Action stations!"_

The gathering of officers stood immediately, sprinting for the door.

* * *

"_Raider squadron closing! Mark two-seven-three, Carem three-four-one, range twenty five, CBDR!" _

Bishop arrived on the flight deck in time to see the Demons launch out of the tubes. He nodded to himself, knowing the Eighth and the Fourth were now in the airspace dealing with the threat. He made way to his Viper, zipping up his flight suit and donning the flak jacket as he jogged.

He leaped up the ladder much the same way Wire had done on his second day on the ship - barely touching the rungs and landing quickly into the ejection seat. He strapped himself in as he ran through start-ups.

"_-coming about-"_

"_-on your six, Hallsey - your six!"_

"_-frakkin' beautiful shot!"_

"Aria_, Pogey - they're cuttin' out!"_

Mason smiled slightly before keying his wireless, "Pogey, Bishop, pursue and destroy what you can, then get home - break - Gypsy, Bishop, Viper Tac."

"_Bishop, Gypsy, go ahead sir."_

"Gypsy, I need the fourth to assume CAP duties for the Eighth. They'll be bingo by the time they're done," Bishop ordered quietly, knowing that the Fourth would now be loosing out on perhaps half an hour's rest. However, to land the Fourth only to re-launch them minutes later would be terribly inefficient. He also knew that the Eighth would be exhausted on fuel, ammo, and pilots, having drawn the long CAP.

"_Understood, sir,"_ Gypsy replied, her voice nonchalant.

"Roger. You'll have the Vigilantes on alert three," Bishop replied, slowly powering his Viper down and unstrapping himself.

"_Bishop, Pogey, they've jumped away."_

"Roger that, Pogey, let's get the Aces on the deck," said the CAG before switching off the auxiliary power on his Viper. He clambered down, rubbing his face violently to keep himself awake. _Just have to make it to my bunk...  
_

* * *

Forty-three minutes later

"_Action stations! Condition One throughout the ship - all hands! Action stations!"_

Bishop's eyes snapped open as the red emergency lighting flooded the stifling hot bunk room. He rolled out of bed, yanking the door open with force, his heart pounding.

"What's going on?" Angel yelled, meeting him at a corridor intersection and falling in step with the sprinting CAG.

"I was hoping you could tell me!" Bishop smirked.

"Nobody ever tells me anything!"

Mirroring his actions he took forty-three minutes prior, Bishop jumped up and landed in his seat with speed. He crammed his helmet on his head quickly, flipping the power on.

_"-roger, tally two squadrons! Where the-"_

_"-breaking low-high! Split and scatter, guys!"_

"Let's move guys! Get me out there!" Bishop barked over the side of his Viper. Knuckle draggers scrambled, hooking up the Third's Vipers and pushing them with haste to the launch tubes.

Bishop keyed up, "Gypsy, Bishop, what do you got?"

_"It could be worse, sir!"_ Gypsy's voice replied. _"Two squadrons - contact in ten seconds!"_

"We're on our way," the CAG replied coolly, saluting his shooter. Five seconds later, he was launched into the fray.

Bishop's mind snapped a quick picture. Just as someone had aired on the wireless, two Raider squadrons were hauling ass toward the wounded _Cathedral_ and _Common_, splitting their paths of attack low and high to the nose of the _Cathedral_.

van Buuren's voice cut over the wireless, _"Bishop, _Cathedral _actual."_

"Go, sir," the CAG replied.

_"Let's bring 'em in close, we'll open up the net and rig some close-detonating heavy shells for you - think you can clean up the rest?"_

Bishop shrugged to himself, "I don't see why not, sir."

_"Roger, standby."_

"Okay, people, you all heard it, the net's going to be delayed slightly, but it'll be fast and loud, wait for the stragglers and pick 'em off. No need to get salty here," Bishop said, easing his Viper over the top side of the _Cathedral._ Below him, the massive ship-to-ship guns rattled out of their beds, pointing their barrels forward.

Double-clicks across the wireless acknowledged the orders as the Demons and Vigilantes lined up aft of the bow of the _Cathedral_, taking a noncommittal stance.

Bishop pondered momentarily on the fact that his people were being remarkably calm in the face of two Raider squadrons. He wondered if perhaps they, as a group, were growing slightly complacent - having taken on so much more than their present challenge and emerged unscathed. He feared this perhaps more than anything. Complacency was an attitude that got pilots killed.

The guns opened up with fury - momentarily filling the inky blackness of the space around them with fiery orange-yellow light of the muzzle flashes - each the size of a Viper.

"Wait for it..." Bishop said slowly.

The Raiders had fired their first salvo of missiles just prior to the responding salute from the _Cathedral_ and _Common_. The Colonial shells burst open in front of the massive ships - intercepting the missiles perfectly. The follow-up shells burst through the defensive net and detonated promptly - sending shock waves across the respective bows of the ships and rattling the fighters around them.

The Raiders had little time to react. Their tight formations were scrambled like an egg in a matter of seconds. The Third and Fourth didn't give them a chance to reorganize.

_"Nice,"_ Angel's voice came over the wireless. Bishop glanced over to see the Third's captain loose a missile that punched completely through the center of a Raider before detonating.

Bishop slammed his throttle forward with the rest of his pilots, picking out his target.

"Actual, Bishop, looks like that actually worked out," Bishop reported as he fired quick bursts at the retreating Raiders.

_"Despite popular belief, I still can come up with some good ideas,"_ van Buuren's voice had a hint of a smile in it.

"Roger that, sir. We're pursuing."

_"Carry on, Major."_

As they had done countless times before, the Raiders began an unorganized and hasty retreat in the form of quick FTL jumps. Bishop disengaged his pursuit, slowing his Viper and allowing his course to drift slightly.

_"Cathedral_, Bishop, Raiders are out of here," Bishop sighed, resting his head against his ejection seat.

_"_Cathedral_ copies, Bishop."_

"Gypsy, Bishop," the CAG spoke next over Viper Tac.

_"Bishop, Gypsy."_

"Get home, Fourth, get some rest."

_"Don't have to tell us twice, sir."_

Bishop nodded to Gypsy as the older pilot flew by. Gypsy nodded in return, thanking the CAG silently for letting the squadron go home a few minutes early.

_"Alright, Third, you heard that, hope everyone used the head before they joined the party..."_ Angel cracked.

_"I didn't. Son of a bitch."_

_"Your loss."_

_"Oh you shut up-"_

Bishop smirked slightly at the banter. At least the pilots hadn't descended to the point of losing their sense of humor. The CAG almost shuddered to think about what it would take to do that.

_"-cause you don't know where it is."_

_"You couldn't find your ass with both hands and a map!"_

_"-wait a minute-"_

Bishop glanced down at his dradis as the last phrase sounded over the wireless. Blips appeared suddenly.

He glanced up through his windscreen, his heart skipping a beat.

"_Cathedral_, Bishop! Dradis contact! Mark a baker's dozen! CBDR!"

_"Bishop _Cathedral_ we see them!"_

"Show some hustle, people - get after them!" Bishop ordered over the wireless, horsing his Viper around, pointing his nose at the twelve or so Cylons who had arrived in his airspace uninvited.

_"What the hell is going on? We just dealt with these bastards!"_ Angel snarled over the wireless.

"I have no idea," replied Bishop, the rail of the _Cathedral_ speeding by his port window. "We don't even know if these guys are the same ones."

Torro, clearly the one who had not hit the head before hopping in his Viper, lead the pack. He opened up with a withering burst of fire, which was not well-received. Fire was returned, scoring a direct hit on Torro's dorsal fin.

_"Torro!"_

The Viper containing the brash, dark-skinned pilot spiraled quickly to the left, hitting the side of the _Cathedral_ with force. Mercifully, it bounced off the meter-thick metal of the outer hull, gyrating wildly into open space.

"Keep after them, Angel, I'll go for Torro!" Bishop screamed over the wireless, instantly altering course.

_"I got him, Bishop! He's my pilot!"_

"He's mine, too, Angel, keep us alive!"

Bishop glanced over his shoulder, seeing Angel peel off the pursuing course of Torro and back into the engagement. The CAG whipped his head back to the front.

"Torro! Get control! Get control, Torro!" he pleaded, hoping Torro was still alive to hear him.

_"That hurt,"_ the young lieutenant managed to groan over the wireless. Bishop saw him fire his thrusters sequentially, stopping the violent roll of his nimble craft and righting it.

"You ok, Torro?" Bishop asked as he came quickly upon his pilot. He swung wide around the wounded Viper, looking intently down into the cockpit as he did so.

_"I'm banged up pretty good, boss, and my bird is pretty bent," _replied Torro through gritted teeth. Bishop didn't need to ask for an explanation. He knew the young man was hurt badly. _"I can get home, I think."_

"Get outta here," Bishop promptly ordered. "You did a good job, Torro - break, _Cathedral_, Bishop - got a bent bird and her driver coming in, request priority land."

_"Bishop_, Cathedral_ air, we copy all - Torro, deck is yours, get back here!"_

_"Sorry I gotta duck out, boss,"_ Torro said as he nosed his Viper around toward home, increasing his speed as he did so.

"Don't worry about it, we'll cover you, you really frakked them up good," Bishop nodded, flying past Torro once more. He breathed a quiet sigh as he saw Torro flash him a thumbs-up as he passed.

_"You frakkin toaster headed, clanker assed, oil-blooded, shit-frakking-poor excuse for a machine, get the frak back here!" _bellowed Angel over Viper tac as he gave hot pursuit to one of the Raiders who had broken away from the squadron. The young Caprican had always demonstrated a gift for colorful, profane language. Bishop watched in amazement as Angel literally _sideswiped_ the Cylon with his own Viper, shearing off the sleek, domed head of the Raider with his own fuselage. The Raider spiraled away, blowing sparks and some foul-looking frozen trail of smoke.

"Guess you showed him, Angel," Bishop almost had to laugh.

_"No one fraks with my pilots! No one!"_ snarled the Caprican, his voice dripping with accent. Bishop was taken aback. Angel was showing a fire known to only a few people - Bishop being one of them. Underneath a relatively calm demeanor laid a fiercely protective, and emotional, soul. Torro was a good friend of Angel's and Bishop's, to see him injured in action had sent Angel off the deep end.

Scattered flashes of light popped like a dozen camera flashes as the Raiders began to jump away. One unfortunate machine didn't make the jump, instead colliding headlong with a defensive flack shell launched a second prior by the _Cathedral_.

"What the frak are they doing," Bishop whispered to himself. "Ah, _Cathedral_, Bishop, Raiders are headed out...um, again."

_"Roger, Bishop, we see it, too."_

"Any ideas, _Cathedral_?"

_"Bishop_, Cathedral_ actual,"_ van Buuren's voice came over the wireless again. _"As soon as we know what to make of it, we'll let you know, but for right now we don't have the first damned clue, either. Keep sharp out there, son."_

"Aye, sir," Bishop acknowledged, rolling his eyes slightly. Of course they would keep sharp.

_"Frakkin' Cylons. I'll kill 'em all. Every last one of the sonsabitches, I swear to every single one of the gods above,"_ Angel muttered darkly as he formed up next to Bishop.

"Go easy, there, Angel," Bishop smirked, glancing to his right, seeing Angel shaking his head violently back and forth.

_"First Airgun, now Torro's down for the count. When's it going to end?" _Angel sighed, mostly to himself.

_"We'll be ok, Angel,"_ a pilot named Jess "Aphrodite" Henderson replied as she swung wide around the engagement zone, her head swiveling, looking for Cylons.

"Aphro's right," Bishop nodded, using the pilot's abbreviated callsign. "Just keep cool, keep steady. Everyone take a second, I want damage assessments and ammo count..."

* * *

Thirty-seven minutes later

_"-complete lack of coordination."_

_"Random, you mean. Most un-Cylon."_

"Look, people, it's possible, let's not discount it-" Bishop wished again he could rub his eyes through his helmet. The chatter had been speculating on how and why two engagements had happened in such a short span of time.

_"Dradis contact! Cylon Raiders! Bearing one-one-five, carem nine-six-one, mark ten. Ten bandits - inbound CBDR!"_

Bishop's heart skipped a beat as he confirmed the contacts on his dradis. _What the frak is going on?_

"Move, people, ricky-tick!" the CAG barked unnecessarily as the Third slammed their throttles down in unison, speeding toward the new threat.

_"Bishop, what is this shit?!"_ Angel asked. _"This is something new!"_

"I don't know," he retorted, spewing bursts of fire from his guns. "At all. I'm out of ideas!"

_"On your six, Bishop!"_

Bishop wheeled around, annoyed that a Cylon had taken residence up behind him. He juked deftly, making a direct line of fire difficult. The machine fired, nonetheless, spraying bullets wide.

"Oh I know you didn't just do that," Bishop muttered to himself, snapping a hard six and pulling up hard, effectively reversing his direction of travel and changing it ninety degrees in less time than it took for his heart to beat.

The Cylon overshot slightly before snapping the larger craft around, appearing almost angry that the human pilot had temporarily bested it. The machine quickly and efficiently scanned the space forward of it, looking for the target it had acquired and determined to be tactically vulnerable.

The target was gone. The Raider instantly performed over three thousand calculations of possible trajectories according to logical human reactions, learned behavior, and programmed limits of space flight. The options were numerous. The Raider chose one. It was wrong.

"Behind you," Bishop whispered to himself before pulling the trigger on his joystick, filling the enemy craft with bullet holes with a vengeful, three-second burst.

The CAG shrugged almost casually, "Seventy-one."

_"Oh horse shit!" _Angel yelled over tac. _"That one was a gimmie!"_

"Still counts," Bishop smirked. The smirk didn't last long, as his deeply blue eyes scanned the airspace, watching the scattered Raiders make a hasty retreat.

_"Cathedral_, Bishop, they're outta here again," sighed the CAG as small flashes of light filled the airspace.

_"Bishop_, Cathedral_ actual,"_ this time Weissbach's voice rang over the wireless. _"We see it. Status on your pilots?"_

"We're all okay, for the most part, sir," Bishop replied, peering intently out of his cockpit, counting the number of Vipers scattered around the _Cathedral_ and _Fairwood Common_. "What's the status on Torro, sir?"

_"He's in sick bay getting worked on - he's banged up, but he'll be okay,"_ Weissbach replied.

"Acknowledged, sir, thank you," Bishop sighed deeply, glancing to his right where Angel had pulled up beside him. The sweating face of his wingman smiled grimly, nodding. "The Third's going to be low on gas, sir."

_"And you're overdue back, Major."_

Bishop glanced quickly at his watch. The Commander was right. He, and the Third, had been out twenty minutes past what was called "pumpkin time" - or in plain language, the predetermined time when a combination of pilot fatigue, equipment maintenance, and fuel dictated the need to land and take mandatory rest time.

"Copy, sir, we're on our way - break with Actual, _Cathedral_ air, Viper Zero-One, Bishop," the CAG sighed, feeling fatigue wash over him.

_"Air boss, go ahead, sir."_

"Who the hell do we have up?"

_"Primus is in the tubes, sir,"_ the air boss replied. Bishop could only immagine the chaos in air traffic at the moment. The CAG assumed, correctly, that the air boss, a grizzled old Warrant Officer named Jeffery Coffin, was chain-smoking cigarrettes and guzzling coffee by the gallon just to keep an even keel. _"Waiting on your go, sir."_

"Send 'em, Third's coming in, and so am I, thank the gods," Bishop said, swinging wide behind the loose formation of the Third. The landing pod yawned before them.

_"Roger that, sir, maintain current vector, speed is yours, checkers are red, niner for land, good frakkin' job out there."_

"Roger speed and course, and good frakkin' job to you and your boys and girls."

* * *

Twenty-nine minutes later

_"Action stations! Action stations! Condition one throughout the ship - this is not a drill! Action stations!"_

Bishop awoke with a start, having fallen asleep in his cockpit. He recalled landing his Viper, the elevator ride down to the hanger deck, the tow to his parking spot, and signing off on post-flight. Sixteen minutes had passed.

"What the frak?" he asked rubbing his eyes quickly, flipping the wireless on.

_"-again! Is that a Basestar?!"_

_"_Cathedral_, Bear - enemy Basetar just jumped in! Ooooooh frak!"_

_"Bear, actual, we see it!"_

"Where the hell is the Fourth?!" screamed Bishop over the din in the hanger bay. He jumped down directly from the edge of his Viper, landing awkwardly.

"They're on their way, sir!" Neilson roared back, his face covered in soot and grime. He looked exhausted. "Just threw them in the tubes!"

"What about the Eighth?" pressed the CAG, looking around wildly for any available pilots on the hanger deck.

"Fueling now - four minutes, sir!"

"Neilson, I need as many birds in the air as we can get! Anything that flies, get it fueled and ready!" Bishop barked as he ran for a communications phone.

"I gotta ask the deck boss, sir!" Neilson pleaded.

"I just made you deck boss, get on it, I don't care what it takes!" the Major yelled over the deep booms of the _Cathedral'_s opening salvo. He punched in a quick extension.

_"Senior officers - Emory!"_

"Garrett, are you listening to this?" Bishop pressed the phone into his ear forcefully, covering his other ear with his hand.

_"Yeah, we're definitely frakked again."_

"Get anyone you can and get down here, Angel, we need to get going!

_"Bishop, I don't know how effective we're gonna be. Hell, you've hardly slept in a day!"_

"Grab some coffee and stims on your way, then!" Bishop yelled before slamming the phone back down. He sprinted back to his Viper, ignoring the protests from his aching muscles as he climbed the ladder back up to his cockpit.

He landed rather ungracefully in his ejection seat. Looking quickly around, he was momentarily taken aback. The exhausted, haggard looks on the faces of the people running about on the deck troubled him. The young men and women - many of them younger than Bishop himself - hustled to load missiles, bullets, and fuel into Vipers. All of their faces told a story of exhaustion. The on-and-off engagements with the Cylons had now stretched into its twentieth hour. And, as every person aboard the _Cathedral_ knew, it was hard to sleep through condition one alerts.

Pilots began jogging onto the hanger deck, their hair askew and their eyes blurry. Angel awkwardly trotted up to Bishop's Viper as the opening salvo from the Basestar impacted the _Cathedral_. He was trying vainly to zip up his flight suit while carrying two spill proof coffee cups and a handful of stims.

"Let me guess, we're all about to die," Angel said sardonically as he leaped up the ladder on Bishop's Viper, handing him a couple of stimulation pills and a cup.

"Pretty much, yeah," Bishop took the stims, chewing them quickly. They tasted bitter and metallic. He grabbed the coffee, guzzling the scalding liquid as quickly as he could. "Let's get to it, then."

"Right," the young Captain nodded to the CAG, smirking slightly. He jumped from the ladder, running quickly towards his Viper, downing coffee as he ran.

Bishop turned his attention back, going through pre-flight for what felt like the millionth time that day.

_"-salvo coming in - watch it!"_

_"-watch yourself! Squad at point oh-six!"_

_"-where?!"_

_"-with me, Factor?!"_

The stims didn't take long to kick in. Bishop felt his veins dilating. The stims had flooded the adenosine receptors in his brain - telling his adrenal glands to produce more adrenaline. His heart rate increased as a response. His internal temperature began to climb in response to the heat being released from increased blood flow around his skin. His fingers began to tingle slightly. His breathing quickened, his blood demanding more oxygen as it rushed through his body. The young CAG instantly felt more awake and more alert. However, it was artificial. A chemical substitute for the natural adrenaline he preferred. It was hampered by the fact that he knew exactly what the stims were doing to him. All of this was on his mind as he launched out of the tube again, back into the fray.

The scene of furious fighting played itself out in a masterful display of chaos once again as the side rail of the _Cathedral_ disappeared behind Bishop. Tracer rounds spat across the sky, adding thousands of bright specks to the already countless stars. Explosions fueled by the very oxygen and fuel carried by the combatants lit the scene about every thirty seconds or so - all of which was being illuminated by the rounds of the two capital ships exchanging furious ship-to-ship rounds. The heavy shells exploded on the defensive flak nets around the perpetually dancing and circling ships.

_"_Common, Cathedral_, can you get an angle?"_

_"Working in it, Wiessbach! Give us three minutes!"_

Bishop glanced to his side, seeing the heavily damaged cruiser take a wide circle around the engagement. Pieces of the _Common_'s hull peeled off the outside of the ship as she absorbed strafing punishment from the superior force of Cylon Raiders.

* * *

_CDF Heavy Cruiser __Fairwood Common__ CIC_

"Decks seven, nine, ten, and eleven venting, sir!"

_"Fire, fire, fire on gun deck! Fire, fire, fire on weather deck all hands lend assistance!"_

Commander Dillon scowled mightily, taking a long drag on his cigar. The aromatic tobacco smoke floated lazily around him, mixing with the slight haze generated by electrical systems shorting out. Sparks flew across the CIC.

"Commander! Engineering reports critical failure in engines one and two! Tyllium reactor at redline!"

"Fire control, automated salvo fire - launch all remaining missiles with spread target package! I want the forward batteries spitting with all we've got!" the Commander growled.

The heavy cruiser lurched again, a haunting moan echoing around the ship as the superstructure flexed well beyond its designed load.

"Casualties reported all decks!"

Dillon sighed deeply, staring at the CIC deck under his booted feet momentarily. He stuck his cigar firmly between his teeth.

"Helm, make your course zero-three-three degrees, ahead flank. Sound collision alarm. Mr. Williams," Dillon turned to his executive officer, a young Major. "All hands will abandon ship and make for the _Cathedral."_

Alarms blared and blue strobes flashed as the collision alarm was sounded.

Williams quickly gave the order, "All hands, all hands abandon ship. All hands abandon ship and evacuate to the _Cathedral_ - this is the XO."

"Sir, I do hope you will be joining us on the _Cathedral_," Williams said quietly.

"Absolutely not, son," Dillon smirked.

"Request permission to stay aboard, sir," Williams asked, drawing himself up and setting his jaw.

"You will do no such thing," Dillon growled. "You will lead the crew over to the _Cathedral_ and see to their safety."

"Commander, I must -"

"Get on it!" barked Dillon, his eyes flashing.

"Aye, sir," Williams relented, staring at the deck. He paused momentarily before whispering, "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me just yet, this isn't over, son."

* * *

_"Bishop - look! The _Common!" Angel bellowed over Viper tac.

Bishop's mouth opened in horror as the mortally wounded _Fairwood Common_ fired her two remaining engines, making a hard run toward the Basestar. Even the uninitiated eye knew what this meant.

"_Cathedral_, Bishop, priority traffic! The _Common's_ making a run at the Basestar!"

_"Let her go, Bishop."_

The simple reply laced Bishop's guts in acid. The heavy cruiser, which had stuck with them loyally through the first engagement Bishop had gone through with the _Cathedral,_ was now literally disintegrating before his eyes. Dillon was making a final run toward the Basestar, attempting to save the _Cathedral_, and his crew. Escape pods launched haphazardly from all around the ship.

"Good luck, sir," Bishop whispered. Explosions violently rocked the cruiser, tossing it about. However, its determined trajectory towards the ship who finally killed her remained true.

Until the Basestar jumped. The Cylon capital ship waited until the _Common_ was danger close before making an abrupt and violent jump. The force of the jump was enough to toss the Raiders attempting to land across the sky in chaotic fashion. The _Fairwood Common_ wasn't as lucky. The pull of the FTL jump on the bow of the cruiser ripped it from its stern with acute and brute force.

Debris scattered across the sky as the main structural supports finally failed. What was left of the solid portions of the ship were alight with raging flames as the oxygenated atmosphere burned away. In the course of three minutes, the proud and mighty form of the _Fairwood Common_ was reduced to flaming hulks of twisted metal.

Bishop's jaw quivered as he looked on. He tried to keep himself from shaking. He knew the loss of human life aboard the _Common_ would be in the hundreds - even with the numerous escape pods launching away. However, it was the futility that felt like an ice-cold metal spike through his very heart. Commander Dillon had made the ultimate sacrifice - pointing his ship toward the Basestar with every intention of ramming it into oblivion. The Cylon ship, however, had displayed a very human emotion. Cowardice. It had indeed sensed the impending impact, and in the interest of machine-logical self-preservation, it had jumped away, leaving dozens of Raiders behind to be picked away by the _Cathedral_ and her air group. The _Common_'s sacrifice was for absolutely nothing.

_"NO!"_ Angel screamed over Viper Tac. _"NO! YOU FRAKKING SONS OF BITCHES! NO!"_

_"-FRAKKIN' COWARDS! YOU FRAKKING-"_

_"Oh, gods no! No!"_

"Pull it together, guys!" Bishop barked, trying to hide his own rage. "I want coverage on those escape pods! Right the frak now! Nothing gets through, I don't give a frak what it takes!"

_"Aye, sir!"_

Vipers began forming up. Bishop knew that he needed to give the pilots an assignment, lest their rage would get the better of them. Better to allow focused anger, than to try and quell it. The CAG didn't blame them. He felt the fury burning inside of him as he also pointed his Viper towards the scattered escape pods, pushing the fighter as fast as it would go. The air group quickly formed up, re-focusing their objective. The Vipers formed a protective line around the unarmed pods - almost like a collection of she-wolves over their collected cubs, daring anyone to take a shot. If Cylons could process fear, they certainly would have felt it.

But they didn't. They knew only machine-perfect logic. Logic dictated to retire from the engagement - facing down several squadrons of Vipers and a Battlestar proved to be a numerical disadvantage. The Raiders began a hasty retreat.

"Gypsy, Bishop - get after them!" Bishop snarled on the wireless. He wished he could go chase them personally. Fuel, fatigue, and ammunition said otherwise.

_"With pleasure, sir!"_ Gypsy replied in a low, dangerous voice. He, and the rest of the Red Aces broke away from their defensive positions around the pods and pursued the Cylons vengefully.

_"Bishop, _Cathedral_ actual,"_ Weissbach's tired voice sounded off in Bishop's ear.

"Bishop, go ahead sir," the CAG replied promptly, his voice still icy.

_"As soon as those pods are aboard, I need all those birds back in the nest as fast as you can land them."_

Bishop was confused slightly, "But, sir, we have these Raiders on the run - I was about to send the Fourth after them as well."

_"No time, Major. We've got a bigger problem. Priority one distress signal from a Colony."_

"...which one?" Bishop asked slowly.

Static and silence answered Bishop momentarily before Weissbach spoke, _"It's Tauron, Bishop. The _Morado_ has been destroyed. Three Basestars, at least, and no CDF forces in the area. Tauron is under seige."_

Bishop's face turned as white as a cloud. He turned slowly, making eye contact with Angel, who's face also displayed a story of shock and horror. His friend spoke, snapping the CAG out of his terrified trance.

"Let's go."


	11. Chapter 11

11.

Hypatia, Tauron

Night was never truly night on Tauron. Once the sun had set, the rising of the neighboring colony of Scorpio dominated the night sky. The ringed, light blue planet bathed the dark side of Tauron in a calm light - often making outdoor lighting unnecessary. It was a favorite passtime of Taurons to share company outdoors into the late hours, surrounded by the towering, noble ivory marble common of the larger cities' architecture. The arid climate in the warm season allowed one to spend almost all hours out of doors - or, at least, with the towering, wide windows favored among the citizens to be kept open. Many Colonials favored the climate - seeking it to cure both physical and mental ailments.

The war had all but put an end to such lifestyles. Windows had been closed and boarded for years. The proud, strong marble architecture had been abused and razzed by countless Cylon assaults. The dry, warm air was now filled with dust and smoke. However, the Taurons, in their fiercely traditional way, had continued their culture underground, away from the booming cannons, bullets, and bombs of the Cylons. They lived, and breathed, vengeance upon the machine race. Taurons toasted their victories and to the memories of the fallen by night, and committed themselves wholeheartedly and passionately to the defense of their world by day.

Sirens droned a haunting cry as the normally placid night sky was filled suddenly with the arrival of three Cylon Basestars. The Battlestar _Morado_, committed to Tauron's orbital defense, had no chance. An aged man-of-war, the _Morado_ was quickly dispatched under a salvo of nuclear weapons loosed by the Basestars moments after they jumped into her airspace. The explosion of the Colonial capital ship in low orbit lit up the night sky above Hypatia. Pieces of her hull began to rain down in flames, followed shortly after by the fiercest barrage of Cylon heavy cannon in recent memory. Civilians fled underground, and civil defense members scrambled to sound the alarm and activate the automatic anti-air cannons that had not already been destroyed. The placid night was now awash with the sounds of explosions, screams, and sirens.

Dust fell from the ceilings of the underground shelters where women, children, and the elderly took refuge. Prayers were murmured to the gods above - pleading for one more day of life - pleading for the very planet itself. The people of Tauron - proud, til the last - refused to accept that this would be their last night. They awaited the dawn, or their death.

* * *

CDF Battlestar _Cathedral_

Bishop tried to keep his eyes in focus. The past five minutes had been utter chaos. The flight deck was a mess of smoking escape pods, Raptors, and Vipers - all in varying states of functionality. The pods had been pulled in, and rather than bring the aircraft down to the hanger deck, the knuckle draggers, led by a near-delirious Petty Officer First Class Neilson, had brought fuel and ammunition up to the flight deck. Ordinance personnel scrambled to and fro, loading what few Archer missiles the _Cathedral_ had left on to the wings of carbon-scored Vipers. Spare forty mike ammunition had been dusted off from the corners of the ship's ammo dump, and loaded precariously. Aviation mechanics shook their heads and blinked their eyes furiously as they tried to patch up the Vipers and Raptors the best they could - knowing that some would never leave the flight deck.

The CAG stumbled to a communications phone - tripping over a three-inch Tylium fuel hose. He punched in the CIC's extension.

_"Combat - Morrow!"_

"Morrow, it's Bishop - who's up there?" Bishop yelled into the phone, hoping his voice was heard over the din.

_"Bishop, it's all frakked here! Everyone's here, I think!"_

"Get me Weissbach if you can!"

_"Standby-"_ rustling was heard. Bishop heard layers of orders and communications being barked back and forth over the line. It seemed that every part of the ship had descended to loosely organized mayhem.

_"Make it fast, Major!"_

"Sir, the squadrons are all frakked - I have no idea who's around. Accountability is out the window! We're almost out of everything, my pilots are about to lose their minds, and the flight deck is a total mess, sir! What are your orders?"

_"Well, if that's it, then that's not too bad,"_ Weissbach cracked. Bishop almost smirked at the Commander's ability to make light of almost any situation. _"Combat jump in five minutes - starting now. I want everything in the air. Anything that flies and shoots gets out there. Anyone who can fly something gets out there. We're going to hit the ground running, and primary focus will be low-orbit and atmospheric defense of the major cities - primarily Hypatia."_

Bishop gripped the phone tightly. His Colony, and indeed, his city, were under attack.

_"I know you know this, Scott,"_ Weissbach had breached his normal methods by using Bishop's name. _"But we must win the day. If we fail, Tauron will fall. If Tauron falls, Caprica will fall. The _Morado_ is history. It's just us. And that means it's just you and your people. Keep your home safe, son."_

"Aye, sir," Bishop acknowledged, slamming the phone down. A fire had lit itself deep within the twenty-four year old pilot's chest. His muscles and organs burned with fatigue - but his soul burned with the idea of vengeance. He clambered up on top of his Viper, and filled his lungs with air.

"ALL PILOTS, ON ME!"

Heads snapped around as Bishop's baritone voice boomed off the bulkheads. No one had ever heard one man yell as loudly as the young CAG had. Green-clad pilots trotted over, gathering around Bishop's Viper. Their faces were smeared with dirt, grease, sweat, blood, and the occasional tear. The CAG sighed heavily, seeing just over seventy pilots gathered.

"Okay," he said, his voice raised now just to overcome the noise of the flight deck. "Here's the short version.

"I know we're tired. We've been at this way too long. Let's not frak around here. Tauron is under attack. In four minute's time, we will be there. I know our squadrons are all frakked up. I want everyone to find their wingman, whoever you're most comfortable with. We're now one squadron - the _Cathedral_ squadron. We will be in atmo, people. Take out the missiles and fighters making for the cities. The civilians are the primary focus for the air group. We will defend them _at all costs_. Is that clear?"

"So say we all!" was the chanted reply.

"Show the Cylons no mercy. This is personal for me, as it is for many of you. Make no mistake. We are taking on several Basestars with full air groups. We are outnumbered three to one. The likelihood of survival is not good. But when our children and their children look back on this day - let them not say that we gave up the fight! Let them remember that today was the day where we stood as one and said no more! Let them tell stories of how we here were not intimidated by our enemy! Today we will not accept defeat! Today we become the gods of the skies and the _Cathedral_! Let the cathedrals of tomorrow be built to the memory of the gods of today! So say we all!"

"_So say we all!"_

Jaws were clenched in understanding as the pilots ran back to their respective fighters. A few clapped Bishop on the back as they passed, with no words being exchanged - just a confident nod of understanding.

"Good speech," Angel managed to shuffle up to him. He smirked wryly. "You actually believe any of that?"

"Some," Bishop sighed, quickly looking Angel over. "You look like hell, Garrett."

"So do you," the Captain had to smile. "Regardless of whether you buy into whatever you said, it's what our people needed to hear. It's going to be bad out there."

Bishop nodded, almost numb to the impending fight. He tried to remember the old Viper jock adage, _Remember, you're already dead..._

Angel rubbed the side of his face, shaking his head and smirking, almost in disbelief. He pulled his ever-present can of milled fumella leaves from a side pocket in his flight suit, and placed a pinch under his lip. He offered the tin to Bishop, which was accepted wordlessly.

"Angel!" Bishop's eyes went wide with shock as he adjusted the bitter-tasting leaves to a space between his jaw and lip. "Nina! Nina is in Hypatia!"

"I know," Angel nodded, his face placid. "I know."

Bishop searched his friend's face. Angel didn't reveal anything - however, Bishop knew better. He knew the passionate Caprican was worried about her. As he would have been. Bishop almost envied him. His parents had died when he was at the war college in a miscalculated FTL jump. Bishop took comfort in knowing their deaths were quick and painless. However, he still felt a strong connection to his home colony of Tauron - and he now felt the urgency relayed through Angel.

"We'll find her, ok?" Bishop nodded to his friend as he clambered up the side of his Viper. "We'll get there, handle this, and we'll find her."

* * *

The launch pod ground slowly out from the side of the _Cathedral_. Scattered on the darkened deck, the air group stood by, their respective fighters idling, waiting.

The first rays of Tauron's sun shone through the front of the flight pod as the opening cleared the side rail of the hulking Battlestar.

Bishop narrowed his eyes as the sun's rays beat down upon his Viper's cockpit glass. He watched the opening on the opposite end of the pod widen slowly. He tried to breathe slowly, focusing on the engagement ahead. He knew that panic and fear would be useless.

The pod reached its full extension with a deep _boom_ that shook the Vipers like toys on a child's table.

"For our Colonies," Bishop said quietly over Viper tac. "For us all."

Tyllium engines flared to life across the runway. Bishop glanced over at the landing safety officer clad in an environmental suit. He gave a thumbs up, followed by a crisp salute. It was returned in kind as the young man dialed back the gravitational pull on the deck.

Each pilot disengaged the magnets on their respective fighter's skids. The air group began to scrape forward, their bonds to the ship now loosed.

Bishop gained speed - the bulkheads of the _Cathedral_ speeding by in a blur. He blinked once, and sharply inhaled as he cleared the pod, leading the charge into the sky above Tauron.

In a moment that felt like an eternity, Bishop rolled to his left slightly, taking in the sight of the planet below him. The _Cathedral_ had jumped into a very low orbit - barely outside the atmosphere of Tauron. The horizon spanned before him, the kilometers-thick atmosphere glowing like a halo, backlit by the nearby star. Towering clouds on the hemisphere of the planet that was in sunlight cast massive shadows behind them as they faced the morning. Behind it, countless stars lay scattered upon the deepest black Bishop had ever laid his eyes upon. The sight was breathtaking.

Above the atmosphere, the Basestars were waiting. Their highly polished, reflective hulls gleamed in the light. They casually acknowledged the presence of the _Cathedral_ by loosing a salute of missiles toward the Battlestar, hardly pausing the bombardment of the planet below.

Bishop disregarded the missiles speeding toward the _Cathedral_ - rather reluctantly. He silently hoped the defensive net would do its job and protect the ship he had called his home for nearly the past year. He pointed his nose down - into the atmosphere of Tauron, with his air group following closely.

* * *

"Fire control! I want the widest net we can at the furthest range! Buy us some time!" Weissbach ordered crisply.

The CIC buzzed. The Commander stood stoically, his arms folded as he glared at the dradis readouts.

"Helm, hold your course - I want a geosync orbit above Hypatia, nice and low. Mr. Morrow," Weissbach turned. "Arm nuclear missile batteries one through twenty seven."

"Geosync orbit, holding course aye!"

Morrow quickly did a double take, however knew better than to question the order. "Arm nuclear batteries one through twenty seven aye, sir!"

"Nuclear missile strike package split - three missiles per Basestar, Mr. van Buuren, do you concur?" Weissbach nodded to his XO.

"I concur, sir," van Buuren nodded quickly, following the protocol to a T. He quickly took a small ring of keys from his pocket and selected his intricately cut key.

"Order for nuclear missile strike confirmed," Morrow rattled off crisply. "Three missile focus package per enemy target - one minute to launch - mark!"

"Sir, launching our weapons will trigger a nuclear response from the Cylons," van Buuren said matter-of-factly across the nav table.

"I'm counting on it," Weissbach nodded slowly as he took his own key off from around his neck. "Fire control, salvo fire as she bears."

"As she bears, salvo fire, aye!"

"Helm, hold us steady - handsomely, now," the Commander cautioned.

* * *

Airspace above Hypatia, Tauron

"Okay, here we go!" Bishop yelled, yanking the joystick up with force. The gravitational pull of Tauron now had complete control over his Viper. He kept the engines humming, careful to keep his craft moving forward. The air around his space superiority fighter began to glow as the Viper plunged through the atmosphere - the very speed and friction of the descent igniting the air around him.

The descent was, to mildly speak, violent. Bishop held on tightly, watching the altimeter through narrowed eyes. He had no vision outside of his cockpit glass except the fiery glow. His Viper shook like dice inside of a cup.

_"Hooolllyyy shiiiit!"_ a voice crackled through the wireless.

"Steady! Keep it steady!" Bishop implored.

Just as quickly and violently as it had started, the glow subsided. Bishop felt an unnatural pull below him. Gravity. He quickly adjusted the flight harness around him, knowing that g-forces would now be a major factor in his maneuvering.

Had anyone been outdoors, the sight would have been mesmerizing. The smoking vapor trails of seventy aircraft across the sky combined with the roar of supersonic booms would give even a hardened pilot pause.

Bishop glanced over his shoulders quickly, seeing the air group forming up as they broke through the lower atmosphere.

"Ok! Air group - take angels eighty! First priority is missiles followed by fighters! Let's frakking crash this clanker shitshow!"

_"Yeeeeeee-aaaahh! Feet dry motherfrakkers!"_

_"Let's do this!"_

Bishop couldn't help but feel a slight happiness to be flying in atmosphere again. The pull of gravity below him as he banked his fighter gently around felt genuine. Despite the constant fighting and sleep deprivation of the past twenty four hours - he felt as though he had just awoken.

"_Nice to be home, eh?"_ Angel called as he pulled up next to Bishop.

"You know it," Bishop nodded. A shrill beep from his dradis snapped his attention back. "Radiological alarm!"

"_Missiles incoming! Multiple entry vehicles!"_

"Get on them!" Bishop roared, pinning his throttle down. Above them, dozens of pinpricks of light showered down. Ice laced Bishop's guts - knowing each dot of light was a nuclear warhead bound for the planet below.

_"Dradis contact! Multiple bandits!"_ sang the voice of one of the Raptors who had tagged along. Bishop was thankful for their presence. The Raptors would take the place of the _Cathedral_ - acquiring targets and calling them further out than the eyes of the standard pilot could see. _"Angels ninety five and falling fast! Mark twenty - no, forty!"_

"It's never easy, is it," Bishop muttered. "I want those nukes taken care of! One pilot takes the nuke, one covers - keep it simple, people!"

_"I got a good line on one, Bishop, cover me!"_ Angel called out.

"On it!" his wingman replied, slowing his pace slightly. Angel pulled ahead of the CAG, his hazel eyes narrowed towards a descending warhead. Bishop's eyes, however, were focused above, watching as the flock of Raiders spiraled quickly downward through the atmosphere.

_"Almost..."_ Bishop heard Angel whisper. His wingman shouted jubilantly, _"Good tone, sweet lock! Fox one!"_

Angel quickly dispatched an Archer missile. Burning solid Tyllium fuel, the missile wove through the sky, breaking the sound barrier several times over. It met its target in a matter of seconds, destroying the warhead with a quick _pop_.

_"Gotcha bitch!"_

"Watch yourself, Angel - I'm headed high!" Bishop announced before abruptly yanking back on the stick and pinning the throttle once again, launching himself vertically. A pair of Raiders broke away from the main pack - diving with purpose toward the leading pilots.

Bishop sized up the two fighters quickly. Too fast for guns. Too far apart for one missile at set detonation range to take care of them both. Auto lock would be ineffective in moments due to decreasing range. _Options, options..._

The Major made a snap decision, flipping the distance safeties off the pair of missiles under his wings. He then selected impact detonation. All in the span of a second. He lined his nose up quickly with the leading Raider. He fired without a second thought. A quick tap of the floor pedal brought his nose in alignment with the second. The second missile was loosed as quickly as the first. As soon as the Archer cleared his rail, Bishop pulled the throttle back to nothing. His engines died instantly - and for a moment, Bishop and his Viper hung in the air as if supported by an invisible hand from below. Slowly, his Viper began to fall backwards toward the surface of Tauron, eighty thousand meters below. As he did, Bishop smirked with satisfaction as his missiles _slammed_ into the glowing eye of each Raider, destroying each fighter before their artificial intelligence could process what had happened.

_"I splashed a nuke, so I think that counts for like...five, right?"_ Angel quipped.

"Whatever makes you sleep at night," Bishop replied as he flipped the stick backwards, causing the flaps on the rear of his Viper to expand. The nose of his fighter inverted gracefully, pointed now towards the planet. He allowed the Viper to gather speed before lighting his engines again.

Viper tac was alight with pilots calling their shots toward the smattering of warheads breaking through the upper layers of atmo.

_"Fox one!"_

_"Fox three!"_

_"Fox one!"_

Bishop took a moment, watching the progress with a nervous eye. He knew just one warhead would spell devesation for the majority of the capitol city below. He needed his pilots to be true in their aim. Moreover, the people sheltered below needed one more chance bought on their behalf.

With elation, the CAG began to see explosions in the sky before him. He wove deftly around the blackened puffs of smoke suddenly appearing in the stead of warheads.

"Kilo! Talk to me! Any more warhead threats?" Bishop called to one of his respected Raptor pilots - Captain James "Kilo" Greene.

_"Standby, sir...scope looks clear! No warheads detected!"_

_"Raiders breaking off! They're headed for the city!"_

"Fraaaak," Bishop swore, turning his Viper hard and looking up through the cockpit glass. The Raiders had indeed disregarded the _Cathedral_'s air group, and were diving with speed toward Hypatia below.

"You know what to do, people, shag it!"

* * *

CDF Battlestar _Cathedral_ CIC

"Firing solution fixed, sir!" Morrow called across the CIC from Fire Control.

"Very well, Mr. Morrow," Wiessbach nodded as the _Cathedral_ shuddered, absorbing a few lucky shots from the nearest Basestar. "AJ, ready?"

"Yes, sir," van Buuren replied, inserting his key into a console on the opposite end of the nav table from where Weissbach stood. "On your mark."

Weissbach inserted his key, "Three, two, one - mark."

On the outer hull of the _Cathedral_, nine missiles, each one and a half times the size of a Viper, flared to life. They cleared their launch tubes quickly, locking themselves onto their respective targets. The nine missiles formed into tight groups of three, closing the distance to each Basestar rapidly.

"Thirty seconds to impact!" Morrow called, clicking a stopwatch hung around his neck once. A hush fell over the CIC as every spare eye locked itself onto a dradis readout.

"Fire control, don't let that net lapse - continue the fire as she bears," Weissbach ordered quietly, albeit quickly as he leered at the dradis readout above him.

"Aye, sir."

"Those Raiders aren't going to take kindly to having nukes in their airspace," van Burren muttered.

"Probably not," Weissbach nodded, wincing as one of the missiles disappeared after being intercepted by a Raider wing.

"Fifteen seconds!" Morrow called, holding his stopwatch with a death grip.

Weissbach glared as another missile fell away. Followed by another. And another. And a fourth.

"Four warheads gone - gods damn it..." van Buuren muttered.

"Impact in five! Four! Three! Two! One! Mark!" Morrow called.

Out of nine missiles launched - two made it through to one Basestar. Their respective explosions sent a rolling shockwave out around the space above Tauron. Dradis readouts went momentarily fuzzy, and wireless traffic was silenced.

"Report!" the Commander barked as the _Cathedral_'s heavy guns boomed away in cadence below his feet.

"Sir! Fatal damage to Basestar contact designated zero-two! They're falling apart, sir!" Morrow yelled across the CIC.

"Well, one's better than none," the Commander sighed heavily.

"Radiological alarm!" van Buuren sang. "Five warheads! Thirty seconds to impact!"

"Gods damn," Weissbach growled. "Helm! Plot emergency FTL jump - put us on the other side of the planet - I don't care exactly where, jump as quickly as you can!"

"Aye, sir, emergency jump!"

_"All hands, standby for emergency jump. All hands standby for emergency combat jump!"_

"Get the pods in! All our birds are feet dry anyway!" van Buuren barked.

"Aye, sir!"

Weissbach closed his eyes. While not a man who had much time for religion, he offered a prayer to any gods willing to listen - asking for just a few more seconds. He knew thirty seconds was pushing the limits on an effective jump.

_We must survive this. We must...  
_

* * *

Bishop clenched the muscles in his lower body - using the old pilot's trick to keep the blood flowing upward into his torso. His Viper shook in the turbulent air above Hypatia as he pursued the Raider flight. The Cylon craft were inherently faster than the Colonial Mark II Viper, making pursuits like this difficult.

The machine-aircraft spread out barely ten thousand meters above Hypatia - their descent hardly slowing. Bishop carefully eyed the distance.

"Drive them away from the city if you can't shoot them down! The city is our priority!" the CAG called over Viper tac. A brief feeling of helplessness crossed his mind as he sized up the force of Raiders - numbering now in the hundreds. The leading fighters began opening up withering bursts of fire as they crossed the outskirts of Hypatia.

_Go faster, go faster, go faster!_ Bishop willed his Viper. He tapped his trigger lightly - spraying bullets in the general direction of the Raiders - now just barely hundreds of meters above the surface. He knew the range made his shots ineffective. He felt helpless as the rest of the enemy squadron opened up on the city.

_"Come on!"_ Angel yelled - flying parallel with Bishop, both of them pushing the Vipers they flew as fast as they would fly.

The edge of Hypatia sped past in the blur as Bishop and Angel led the charge. Bishop's mind raced back to when he was a teen - picturing the layout of the city before him.

_"Watch it - they're coming around!"_

_"Bishop, Kilo!"_

"Go Kilo!" Bishop replied.

_"They're on to you! Half the Raiders are coming about to slow you guys up!"_

"Okay - Gypsy, you around here?" Bishop looked around wildly, trying vainly to spot the squadron leader in the scattered mess of aircraft.

_"Right with you!"_ Gypsy replied, her voice staticky over the wireless.

"I need you to handle this half!"

_"Wilco, sir!"_

Bishop's eyes scanned quickly - looking for an out. He knew there would be no getting around the Raiders who had turned to interfere with him. He needed Vipers loaded for bear in the city. _How, though? Come on, Bishop! Do something!_

_"Bishop - Bishop what in the frak are you doing?!"_ Angel asked, appalled. The Caprican watched as Bishop dove _even closer_ to the ground - now just tens of meters above the surface. Dust rolled up behind his Viper in a turbulent cloud.

"Taking a shortcut - you in?" Bishop asked as he eyed a long stretch of roadway below him.

_"Are you frakking crazy?!"_

"Follow me! Anyone else not engaged, form up! Single file!" Bishop smirked. The long stretch of road below was a main expressway used to transverse the city quickly and circumvent side streets. Bishop remembered using it often. It lead to a tunnel below the city, with many exits leading back to the surface streets of Hypatia at regular intervals.

_"Oh my gods..."_

"Fly steady - it's wide enough! Trust me!" Bishop barked, pointing the nose of his Viper _into the entrance of the tunnel_. "Come on!"

_"This is frakking nuts!"_

"I want the back of the line to peel out on the first exit! The next Viper up takes the next exit! All the way up to me! Blow out the tunnel and engage the first thing you see flying!" Bishop ordered as the walls of the cavernous expressway shot by with speed.

_"I can't even see the exits!"_

_"Use the road signs, you prat!"_ Angel shot back over tac.

Bishop realized he may have spoken too soon when describing the dimensions of the tunnel. The stone walls rushed by - barely meters from the tips of his wings and the top of his aft fin. _They looked bigger when I was in secondary school..._

_"Last exit coming up, Bishop!"_ his wingman called - barely a Viper length behind him.

"Here we go..." the young man took a deep breath - watching as the sun-lit exit of the tunnel sped towards him - with Cylons most certainly waiting on the other side.

* * *

CDF Battlestar _Cathedral_, CIC

"I need that jump!" Weissbach roared.

"The computer won't accept the last coordinate, sir!" Morrow replied back quickly, sweat forming on his brow.

"Punch something in that's close! We're out of time!"

"Sir, that's a blind jump!" Morrow paled at the order.

_"Do it now!"_ Weissbach absolutely bellowed. Morrow, taken aback, hit the first number his finger found and cranked the jump key over with force.

The _Cathedral_ disappeared from sight moments before the nuclear payload fired by the Cylons reached the detonation mark.

Weissbach opened his eyes, quickly glancing to the dradis in front of him. Unnecessarily he barked, "Report!"

"Jump complete, sir! We're on the other side of Tauron!" Morrow said in disbelief, counting his fingers to make sure they were all there.

"Helm! Ahead full in danger-low orbit, bring us around the planet. Fire control! I want orbital rounds targeted for any Cylon forces on the ground - fire at will. Get me the rest of the nukes, too! Firing solution in two minutes! I want those Basestars out of my frakking sky!" Weissbach ordered crisply. "And someone get everyone here some coffee!"

A yeoman jumped up out of his seat and disappeared with speed.

van Buuren shook his head and laughed.

"What?" Weissabach asked, grinning.

"Coffee at a time like this?" the XO asked.

"What better time is there, AJ?"

* * *

Bishop's cockpit was one again bathed in glorious sunlight as he shot out the tunnel like bullet from a gun. Angel followed at alarming proximity.

Quickly glancing behind him, the CAG saw the last of his fighters exiting the tunnel - climbing up through the city as though released by the very ground itself.

Small flights of Raiders - numbering anywhere from two two five aircraft - buzzed low over the city, peppering the buildings and defensive positions with harassing fire.

Bishop kept low - his Viper just tens of meters above the surface of the streets below him. Angel, forced out of his usual position to the right of Bishop, followed just behind and slightly above to avoid the jetwash generated by the CAG's turbofan engines. As soon as the air wing entered into atmosphere, the pilots had engaged the seldom-used older style engines. It was a somewhat different sensation for some of the greener pilots who only knew of their turbofans from basic flight.

For Bishop and Angel, it reminded them of their time on Picon, flying atmospheric patrols. The engines generated a noise all their own as they literally sucked in and compressed the air around them, forcing it out of the conical rears of the engines. Added to the mixture was vaporized Tyllium fuel - igniting the whole works in an impressive flame.

_"Three above, Bishop!"_ Angel called out from his elevated position to the rear.

"Roger three, tallyho," Bishop smiled, pulling up sharply.

_"Tallyho!"_

Like missiles from underground silos, the two Vipers cleared the skyline with speed, instantly opening up with vengence on the Cylon fighters.

Angel deftly jumped ahead, taking advantage of a sight line one of the Raiders had fallen into. It paid dearly, with its forward progress halted through its own explosion.

_"Splash one!"_ Angel cackled.

"Gypsy, Bishop!" the young Major called over the wireless, scanning the sky vainly.

_"Go, sir!"_

"Tell me good news!"

_"We're over on the south side of the city, sir! All fighters engaged! We're a little busy, sir!"_

"Keep it that way! Kilo - talk to me!"

Captain Greene's voice came over the wireless, staticky from his position kilometers above the engagement.

_"It's a mess, Bishop, but it could be worse - the _Cathedral_ rocketed out of here on a jump - I think it was an emergency-"_

"-what the frak?" Bishop whispered to himself, pulling hard around one of Hypatia's towering structures, following Angel as the two hotly pursued their targets.

_"-I think it was to dodge some nukes - can't be sure! You guys are really frakking their day down there - they're completely frakked! Keep it up!"_

"You bet your ass," Bishop struggled to say as g-forces assaulted his body. "You see something, you let me know, Kilo!"

_"Wilco, sir!"_

Bishop and Angel continued their violations of every safe flying rule ever established as they wove in and out of the towering ivory buildings of Hypatia - firing away with fury at any target that would present itself.

_"Bishop, Kilo!"_

_That was quick._ "Go, Kilo!"

_"New dradis contact! One-three-seven degrees, carem two-two-nine! Cylon heavy transport, sir! Looks like a clanker hauler!"_

"How much time?!" Bishop gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted was Cylon centurions on the ground.

_"Right frakking now!"_

"Outstanding," the CAG sighed. "Angel - let's go get 'em."

_"But what about those Raiders?" _Angel protested.

"Let the others get them. Third, where are you?!" Bishop barked.

_"We heard it, Bishop, right with you!"_ Aphrodite chimed in over the wireless.

Bishop pulled back slightly on his throttle and stood on his right foot pedal, pulling up at the same time. His Viper snapped around, its nose now pointed skyward. He pushed the throttle forward.

The Third climbed skyward, fighting the pull of Tauron below. Bishop narrowed his eyes, spying three hulking shapes descending slowly through the atmosphere.

"Everyone see those?"

_"Holy gods..."_

"Let's ruin their day, people," Bishop quickly lined his nose up directly towards the belly of one of the descending transports.

As his gloved hand squeezed the trigger, a withering barrage of fire came out of nowhere from his left side

"Frak!" he swore as bullets peppered the side of his Viper, cracking the cockpit glass and knocking him wildly askew.

_"What the frak?!"_

_"From the port side!"_

_"Son of a bitch!"_

Bishop's Viper gyrated wildly in the atmosphere. As he inverted, he took another barrage of fire, cracking the cockpit glass on the starboard side of his superiority fighter.

_"Bishop! Bishop, you ok?!"_ Angel almost screamed over the wireless.

The CAG growled as he physically fought the gravitational forces pulling at his body as he spun. He killed the engines and pushed his joystick forward, pointing his nose straight for the ground.

"I'm ok! I think!" Bishop replied, truthfully. "Stay on those transports! I'll be there in a minute!"

_"The frak you will, your bird looks like a cheese grater!"_

"I said stay on it!" Bishop roared as his Viper plummeted towards Tauron, gathering speed. He restarted his engines - his plane offering a very loud cough of protest with a puff of black smoke to match.

He pulled up, recovering out of the dive and feeling the sweet relief of lift under his wings as his flight was regained.

_Well, shit..._ he thought as he looked at the spalled and cracked glass to his left and right. He couldn't see a thing. Alarms blared at him from his dradis readout:

_ENVIRONMENTAL FAILURE - WARNING - ENVIRONMENTAL FAILURE - WARNING_

"Perfect," he muttered. Returning to the _Cathedral_ wouldn't be possible. At least not today. The systems allowing him to live and breathe outside of atmosphere had failed - probably skewered by one of the Cylon rounds. He sighed in frustration, trying vainly to see out of his cockpit glass. _Frak it._

The CAG drew his sidearm, and placed the barrel of the gun at the point of one of the main crack in his glass. He closed his eyes and fired once. The bullet smashed through the other pane of glass protecting him from the outside atmosphere. The _entire side_ of his cockpit blew outward and into the sky. He quickly transitioned his firearm to his left hand, and placing it against the right side of his cockpit, repeated the motion.

_"What the hell are you doing, Scott?!"_ Angel bellowed.

"Rolling down the windows - calm down," Bishop cracked in reply. Wind rushed into his cockpit - rippling his flight suit. He switched off the failing self-contained air system, breathing in ambient air. With one breath of the ambient atmosphere of Tauron, he felt immediately rejuvenated. He snap rolled his left and immediately laid tracks back to the engagement.

_"Bishop - Bishop this is _Cathedral_ do you copy?"_

"_Cathedral_, Bishop, I got you five by five, go ahead!" he replied, relieved.

_"Bishop, _Cathedral_, we're just on the horizon"_ Morrow's voice crackled. _"We're out of range of the Basestars above - but we've got orbital rounds standing by - got a job for them?"_

_Bingo!_ "I sure as hell do - mark three Cylon heavy transports descending on the city! Get coordinates from Kilo!"

_"Roger, standby..."_

As Bishop said this, he caught up to Angel and the rest of the Third as they opened fire on one of the transports.

_"Oh he didn't like that..."_

The transport responded with a withering burst of fire, causing the Third to scatter haphazardly.

Angel and Bishop both overshot the transport group. They rolled a simultaneous hard six, bringing their noses back around.

"Anytime, _Cathedral..._" Bishop pleaded.

* * *

CDF Battlestar _Cathedral_, CIC

The hulking mass of the Battlestar _Cathedral_ rattled noisily as it skimmed off the upper atmosphere of Tauron, making the ardrous task of carrying twenty cups of coffee challenging at best.

Colonel van Buuren had quit smoking several years prior - or at least he stuck to that story when in mixed company. However, the prospect of a shootout with two Basestars made him temporarily forget the benefits of not partaking in the vices of fumella.

He accepted the half-spilled cup of coffee and blew a cloud of aromatic smoke towards the ceiling of the CIC.

"-request from Bishop in atmo for fire mission! Coordinates as follows -"

Weissbach's head snapped toward Morrow, who was holding two heavy, black phones to each side of his face.

"What the frak does Bishop want?!"

"Sir," Morrow pressed the phones into his shoulders. "Fire mission from Bishop! He's got Cylon troop transports landing in Hypatia - the Viper's guns just aren't cutting it."

"Do it, and get me another firing solution on those Basestars, before they get one on us."

"Aye, sir!"

* * *

Hypatia, Tauron

_"Oh come on!"_

Bishop sighed in frustration as only a few of his bullets punched through the thick armor of the transport vehicle.

_"Bishop - _Cathedral."

"Bishop," the CAG replied crisply.

_"We can't lock the coordinates down that you gave us! They're moving on us!"_

"Frak..." Bishop swore. _Options...options... _"Morrow, Bishop - can you guys get a fix on my transponder?"

_"Affirm, Bishop, we see you."_

"Fire close package at my transponder - proximity detonation danger close!"

_"Bishop, I'm not su-"_

"Just frakking do it!" Bishop snapped. "Third, Bishop, clear the frak out of here!"

_"Bishop, this is stupid. There's no sense in getting killed like this, we'll take them on the ground!"_ Angel said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice as he considered the absurdity of the idea.

"I'm not getting killed. Clear out of here and watch," Bishop smirked.

The CAG brought his Viper in close to the descending Cylon craft. Bullets pinged off of his Viper, pockmarking the skin with fist-sized holes.

Bishop extended his landing gear, and flipped on the magnetic grip on the bottom of his skids - the turbulence shaking his Viper furiously.

_"You're nuts. You're absolutely nuts."  
_

* * *

CDF Battlestar _Cathedral_, CIC - Fire Control

"He wants us to _fire upon_ his own transponder signal?" a confused and haggard-looking petty officer asked.

"I know, I know, just do it," Morrow sighed, massaging his temples with a thumb and forefinger across his face.

"Here goes, then," said the petty officer as he punched in the coordinates and adjusted for movement. "Fire one!"

Deep booms resounded through the ship as the well-worn barrels of the _Cathedral_'s large one hundred fifty centimeter guns blasted rounds down and through the atmosphere of Tauron - inbound for the small transponder signal being emitted from her own CAG's Viper.

* * *

Hypatia, Tauron

Bishop's landing on the back of one of the transports could be described, at best, as horrendous. The force of the landing snapped one of his landing struts cleanly in half.

His body jolted forcefully and painfully as the magnets took hold. He breathed heavily for a moment, his head swimming from the impact.

_Ouch..._

_"Bishop! Bishop! Rounds incoming!"_

_Oh, shit..._

The young pilot groped blindly underneath his seat, looking for two yellow and black circular d-handles. His gloved hands gripped them tightly, and pulled upward with as much strength as he could muster.

The cockpit canopy, normally secured by a backward-sliding locking mechanism and magnetic locks, detonated off of its rails and spun wildly off into the sky. A heartbeat later, the very seat Bishop rode on erupted in a rocket of flame just under his legs. He shot with force out of the cockpit.

As he did, a gust of upper atmospheric wind caught the ejection seat and twisted it, causing Bishop's body to turn. As it did, his left knee impacted the side rail of his Viper's cockpit, twisting it unnaturally at an absurd angle. A sickening _crack_ was heard above the roar of the rockets underneath his ejection seat.

_"AAAAUGH!"_ Bishop screamed, his mind instantly ablaze with pain. His ejection seat continued rocketing across the sky - subjecting Bishop to over nine times the force of the gravity of Tauron. Between the pain and the heavy pull of gravity - Bishop's world went slowly black.

As Bishop slipped into unconsciousness, the narrowed spread of one hundred fifty centimeter shells ripped through the lower part of the atmosphere. Intended primarily for ship-to-ship open space or orbital combat, each shell, the size and weight of a Viper, shook the very air around it in sonic booms.

The detonation was quick and effective. As soon as the proximity threshold was crossed, the rounds detonated automatically, sending white-hot shrapnel through the air along with an explosion that could only come with the potent mixture of oxidized phosphorus and solid tyllium.

Instantly, two of the transports erupted into respective balls of flame and black smoke. The third transport's nose was sheared off completely - its fate sealed as it began an uncontrolled plummet towards the surface.

"Holy shit!" Angel screamed, unable to process what he had just saw. "Bishop! Bishop punched out!"

_"Angel_, Cathedral_ - we can't raise Bishop - what happened?"_

"Sir," Angel keyed up quickly, his eyes scanning the sky for any sign of his friend. "Bishop landed his frakking bird on the transports! They're history! He punched out before impact - unknown location presently!"

_"_Cathedral_ copies all - Angel, we need you to keep the bastards entertained in the air, okay?"_

"Negative, sir, negative!" the young Caprican protested. "We're going to find Bishop!"

_"Listen here, Angel. Win the day and give him a chance. He can handle himself. If we lose the day - we lose everything, do you copy?"_

Angel fumed in silence momentarily. He wasn't so brash as to know that his superior officer was correct. The fight for Tauron was far from won. To disengage would be a misapplication of his highly skilled Viper squadron. He could only imagine what Bishop would say.

"Roger, sir...wilco," Angel muttered before flipping back to Viper Tac. "Ok, Third, back on me. And for frak's sake, keep your eyes open for a parachute!"

* * *

The jolt of landing woke Bishop with a start. He had landed in the middle of what he remembered to be downtown Hypatia. The streets were awash in rubble and smoke. Sounds of gunfire and roaring engines above were the only things audible.

He blinked a few times in the sunlight, unbuckling himself from the five-point harness. He fell out of his ejection seat rather clumsily. His knee throbbed in a dull pain - however it wasn't unbearable. He assumed that he had completely torn the ligaments as he tried to put weight on it and failed miserably.

"Frak," he whispered, pulling his helmet off his head and discarding the environmental collars around his neck and gloves. Working as fast as he could, he pulled the matching support rods off either side of his ejection seat, placing them on either side of his defunct leg. He wrapped his leg tightly to the metal rods, wincing as he forced his leg into a straightened position.

Pulling the seat around again, he punched out a small glass window and pressed a large, red button on the side of the chair. A blinking light answered the press. He sighed in relief, knowing that the distress beacon had activated.

He laid back on the street momentarily, staring up into the sky. Exhaustion washed over him. Raiders and Vipers criss-crossed the crisp morning, exchanging furious rates of fire. Above him slightly, he could still see the massive black cloud of smoke - all that remained of the Cylon transports.

A loud crash shook the ground somewhere to his right. He disregarded it, trying to keep himself awake. He assumed it was a building that had succumbed to damage or a Raider that had been downed.

Bishop's mind wandered back to the days when he was younger - or at least what younger felt like to him. He remembered walking downtown, bathed in warm spring sunlight, perhaps finding something to eat at one of the countless pubs, or, more likely, trying to find out where the young female Tauronians were gathered at. He closed his eyes, remembering the roar of the crowd at Hypatia Stadium, as the Tauron Bulls would take the Pyramid court in a heated rivalry game, hosting the hated Caprican Buccaneers.

He hoped, with every fiber he had left laying on that street, that life would return to that some day. While he didn't question his love of flying, and his profession - he yearned for just one more chance to walk in downtown Hypatia. To feel the sunlight on his face agian. To smell the crisp, slightly humid spring morning air greet him.

* * *

_"Angel! Dradis contact!" _

"What now?" Angel sighed, realizing that he had, willingly or not, taken over Bishop's responsibilities as CAG.

_"I've got a distress beacon - looks to be right in the middle of downtown Hypatia!"_ Kilo's voice said over the wireless. _"I think it could be Bishop!"_

"Push the coordinates through to me!" Angel barked. "Aphro, keep on them up here, I'm going to take a look!"

* * *

CDF Battlestar _Cathedral_, CIC

"Incoming!"

Weissbach braced himself against the nav table as a fresh volley of shells announced their arrival back in the airspace of the two Basestars. The _Cathedral_ shuddered violently, absorbing the hits with protest.

"How's that firing solution?" the Commander demanded.

"One minute to launch, sir!" Morrow called back, his hair askew and eyes wild.

"Where's our returning fire?!" van Buuren roared, stomping over to fire control.

"Sir, the barrels are too hot! The rounds won't track! We need to wait for cool-down!" the fire control petty officer looked up, intimidated.

"Gods damn it! Vent gun housings to open space and throw buckets of water on them if you have to! We need those frakking guns!" the XO raved.

"Sir! Engineering on the line!" Morrow yelled over the din, his tall figure obscured in the light haze. "FTL is down! Sublight power only, and we're pushing it at that!"

"Narrow our targeting profile towards the Basestars! Bring us about! Don't show them our sides, helm!" Weissbach crisply ordered. "Fire control, we have to have _something_ that works in the forward battery, don't we?"

"I'll check, sir!"

"Frakking throw our pots and pans at them if we have to!" bellowed the Commander, his options dwindling. A slight unease came over him. "Wait...wait. Why are they not firing?"

Silence fell over the CIC, save for the alarms and wireless traffic. Indeed, the Battlestar had stopped shuddering from impacts of large rounds. The dradis showed no incoming missiles.

"What in the actual frak..." van Buuren whispered.

"Sir!" yelled a young warrant officer sitting at the communications station. "Emergency action message, priority one from Picon!"

* * *

Hypatia, Tauron

Angel plummeted through the sky, homing in carefully on the coordinates Kilo had sent him. His eyes searched the ground, hoping to catch a glimpse of brightly colored parachute somewhere. He circled above the city, fearing the worst.

"Come on, Scott, where the frak are you?"

* * *

Bishop's eyes opened suddenly to a very distinct sound. It was a strong, metallic noise. Rhythmic and perfect, with the cool hiss of hydraulics overlapping the banging rhythm.

It was, of course, the sound of marching Centurions. Bishop sat up, his eyes narrowing as a dozen or so rounded the corner. His assumption had been false. The crash he had heard was the remains of the third transport, carrying still-functioning Centurions aboard.

He drew his sidearm and loaded a fresh magazine. He dragged himself behind his ejection seat, gripping the pistol close.

The sound of the approaching Cylons grew louder. Bishop knew he couldn't run. He also knew that one sidearm would be quickly ineffective against the automatic weapons of the Centurions.

_So this is how it ends. At home._

He smiled slightly as he glanced up at the sky, one last time. The sun had risen fully now, illuminating the proud structures that had not yet been destroyed over the course of the war. For a moment - just the briefest moment - Bishop smelled the sweet air of spring. He inhaled deeply, and held the breath for a moment, savoring the sweetness of the air. He exhaled, happy to have breathed such a final breath.

* * *

CDF Battlestar _Cathedral_, CIC

Weissbach ran over to the communications console, reading the printed message.

"-immediate cease-fire has been ordered fleet wide. CDF to stand down unless fired upon. Armistice has been reached with Cylons. Hostilities to cease..."

The collective breath of the CIC was held as the Commander read the last sentence.

"...hostilities to cease immediately per Colonial One. Fleet Admiral Schaeffer."

Shock was played out on the faces of the crew. No one dared to speak.

"Mr. Morrow, is this message authentic?" Weissbach asked slowly, his eyes locked on the screen before him.

"Sir," Morrow said slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Authentication codes confirmed from Colonial Fleet Headquarters Fleet Admiral. It's real, sir."

Weissbach stood up slowly, the eyes of his crew tracking his every move. He strode, slowly, over to where van Buuren stood. He looked in his XO's eyes briefly before picking up a phone.

"Crew of the _ Cathedral_, this is the Commander.

"We have just received flash traffic from the Admiralty on Picon. As of moments ago, the moment that we have waited for has arrived. Armistice has been reached with the Cylons. Let me be the first to congratulate each and every one of you on your exemplary service to the people of the Colonies. At last. Thank the gods almighty, it's over. The war is over. "

The collective cheer that went up from the gathered crew in the CIC put the noise of a full broadside to shame. Tears flowed freely down the faces of officers and sailors alike. Crew members, regardless of rank, held each other, sobbing and cheering.

"Sir!" Morrow bellowed over the din, grinning. "Sir! Remaining Basestars and Cylon forces have jumped away! Dradis is clear!"

Weissbach simply smiled and leaned against the nav table, his face showing his premature age. He glanced at van Buuren. His XO had never once shown a shred of emotion that he could recall. But now, tears flowed silently down his face as he surveyed the Commander.

"It's over, Jim," van Buuren whispered.

"I know, AJ," Weissbach gripped his friend's hand, pulling him in and holding him tightly. "I know."

* * *

Hypatia, Tauron

Bishop stood quickly. As he turned, he raised his sidearm, his intensely blue eyes focused down the sights. He instinctively aimed for the first glowing red eye he saw, and squeezed the trigger. He hoped his last moments would be brave. He committed himself to standing until the end. He would not cower and beg for his life. After all, he was already dead.

As he pulled back on the trigger, a curious thing happened.

A deafening roar, accompanied by a strong wind immediately was present behind him. His first shot dropped the targeted Cylon. However, the rest were immediately reduced to nothing as the unmistakable sound of forty millimeter bullets belched out of wing tipped cannons.

Bishop turned, and was immediately face-to-face with a Viper - held off the ground with thrusters blowing furiously. In the cockpit, Angel smirked at him and shook his head.

Angel cycled his landing gear, and lowered his Viper onto the surface. Bishop shielded his eyes from the flying dust and debris as the superiority fighter was placed gently on the surface of the street. Angel quickly shut the fighter down, and jumped from the cockpit to the street in one motion.

"Well," he said, walking slowly up to Bishop.

Bishop found it curious that Angel wasn't showing more of a hurry.

"Angel, there'd better be a ride coming for us. Cylons are gonna be all over here in a minute!" Bishop tried vainly to hobble forward.

Angel shook his head, laughing. He took of his helmet, and discarded the silver environmental collars right onto the street.

"Angel, have you frakking lost it?" Bishop's eyebrows shot up. "We gotta go!"

The young Captain still shook his head, laughing. Despite himself, Angel broke into full hysterics, his laughter echoing off the buildings.

Bishop limped toward Angel, completely sure that his friend had gone insane.

Wiping his eyes, Angel looked at Bishop. He placed a pinch of rolled fumella leaves under his lip. He smiled, and spat on the ground.

"Scott, it's over."

Bishop stood there, his flight suit reeking of smoke and sweat. His left knee was swollen to twice its normal size. He hadn't slept in over thirty hours. His muscles shook from exhaustion.

Angel stood before him, equally as exhausted, smiling.

Bishop limped toward the nose of his friend's Viper before lowering himself down slowly. Angel walked over, assisting him to the ground. They sat in silence for perhaps a minute, leaning against Angel's front landing skid.

When Bishop spoke, it was quiet, and matter-of-fact.

"Well. No shit?"


	12. Chapter 12

12.

_"-with the sudden cessation of hostilities. Communication with Cylon forces has not yet been established since the cease-fire, despite repeated attempts by Colonial government. Meanwhile, Colonial Defense Forces still remain weary and in a state of readiness, although no contact with any Cylon forces have been reported within the last thirty-six hours."_

_"CDF Fleet Admiral Schaeffer went on the record today, expressing his optimism with the cease-fire. _

_'A tremendous day, and indeed a day long awaited by the citizens of the Colonies. The war, with the blessings of the gods, can now be looked on as a time when mankind persevered through a trial to end its existence. It should be a proud day, and a solemn day, as we remember the staggering loss we as a people incurred. My thoughts and prayers, as always, are with the men and women who have given their lives in the defense of our homes, and with their families.'_

_"We'll have further comments and reactions from around the Colonies, including remarks from the President at the top of the hour, Caprican mean. This is Colonial Talk Wireless radio."_

Bishop sighed as he signed his name on the bottom of his medical evaluation, glancing quickly at the wireless on the wall. He took solace in the knowledge that he wasn't the only one who was slightly leery at the cease-fire.

"Well, Major, what do you think?" the ship's doctor, an olive-skin man named Ali Fathala asked, his voice seasoned with accent.

"I should be asking you that, doc," Bishop smirked, glancing at his knee - gripped in the jaws of a brace.

"It's going to be awhile before you can fly, I'll tell you that much," Fathala said, taking a seat on a stool beside Bishop's bed. "Two ligaments completely torn, and the worse sprain I think I've ever seen. It's remarkable your leg wasn't torn completely off."

"I guess that's good news," the young pilot shrugged.

"Considering, yes," the doctor nodded. "Try to take it easy on the celebrations, okay?"

Bishop nodded, standing gingerly on his right leg, placing a crutch under his left arm. He cordially shook the doctor's hand before limping out of sick bay, passing a line of sailors, soldiers, and pilots all in varying states of disrepair as he made his way back into the ship.

* * *

He limped his way into the ready room. Music boomed from a portable machine someone had brought up for the occasion. Weissbach had, wisely, ordered a day of stand-down, seeing as he was helpless to stop the spontaneous and euphoric celebrations breaking out ship-wide.

As for the pilots, Bishop also knew he held no control. They would celebrate as aviators did, despite their obligations. He had simply requested two Vipers and a Raptor stay up at all times with combat patrols around the _Cathedral_ and in the Tauron airspace. The air group was understanding, taking their time to perform celebratory fly-overs of Hypatia and Tauron City while on patrol.

Angel, having just landed, bounded into the ready room, still in full flight gear. His grin was wide as he removed his helmet.

"You should see it down there!" the Captain yelled over the music. Someone forced a foamy beer into his hand, which he gulped furiously. He wiped his mouth with a gloved hand and continued. "Flags everywhere! People are on the rooftops and waving when we fly by. The streets are full of people, Scott. I've never seen anything like it!"

Bishop smiled, hearing the quiet roar of transports taking off and landing. He accepted a drink passed to him by Angel, and they drank quietly, their eyes wandering to the front of the room.

Aphrodite had proven herself quite capable of a little audio/video work. She had compiled an hours-long highlight reel of gun camera footage - showcasing the spectacular flying seen over the war.

Bishop enjoyed the video, but also felt slight pangs of guilt. Some of the footage was taken from the gun cameras of pilots who weren't there to celebrate. The screen lit up again with a fresh clip, with a hush falling over the room as everyone read the name at the bottom of the screen:

_L. "Hellfire" Hellewell_

The pilots, and some of their ground crew who had wandered in, watched the spectacular footage. While Bishop hadn't had a chance to watch Hellfire for very long, he nodded in quiet respect for the fallen pilot's skill. The screen rotated quickly, showing Raiders exploding in bright flashes of light. In the span of forty seconds, Bishop watched as Hellfire downed three Raiders in open space.

"To Hellfire!" roared a voice from the back of the room.

Heads snapped around, and boots quickly planted themselves on the floor as everyone snapped to their feet.

Bishop struggled to stand up as well as the Commander made his way down the aisle. Weissbach banged a fist on the Vigilantes crest as he passed.

"As you were. You, especially, Bishop, sit down for frak's sake," Weissbach said.

Someone turned the music down slightly as the Commander strode slowly to the front of the room. He took a mug and filled it up with drink.

"Guys, gals," he began, leaning on the side of the briefing podium instead of standing behind it, which was customary. He paused, searching for words.

"Let me be the first to congratulate you all. I know our minds are with the people who couldn't be here today. But I think they would want us to celebrate, rather than mourn their loss. Today is a day we've only dreamed of. I never thought I would live to see it, honestly. The fact that we all are here is direct tribute to your skill and determination. You didn't give up. Even as it got bad there, right towards the end, you all took it upon yourselves to make the defense of the colonies and this ship your top priority."

"It was a long war. A hard war. And I'm not going to stand here and pretend like I know where our futures lie. For some of you, you may never pilot a Viper or a Raptor again after your enlistment is up. That's okay. For some of you, you may continue your service in the fleet - service that will always be needed, whether we want to think it will be or not. Regardless, you can look back now on these years with pride. When someone asks you, 'What did you do when you were younger?' you can look at them with pride and say I served with the finest Battlestar and her air group in the Fleet. And years from now, should you find yourself alone, with no one to fly your wing...give me a call. I'd fly with each and every one of you."

Bishop stood, clumsily. He raised his glass, "And we'd fly with you, sir."

"So say we all!" was the jubilant cry.

_"Garrett!"_

The fact that someone could yell louder than a room full of Fleet members was stunning in itself. Silence fell as everyone gathered looked toward the door in confusion. Pounding footsteps were heard echoing off the bulkheads of the corridor outside.

_"Garrett!"_

Bishop glanced at Angel, who's face wore an expression of confusion and shock. His friend shrugged, shaking his head and mouthing the words, "I have no frakking clue."

The running footsteps approached the door. Through it ran a stunningly beautiful woman - her auburn hair flowing behind her as she ran. Her light blue eyes scanned the room, quickly locking on the wholly confused figure of Captain Garrett "Angel" Emory.

"Oh my gods," he breathed, his mouth opening in shock. "Nina."

"Garrett."

Like a scene from a romance movie, the two ran down the aisle of the ready room, meeting each other in the middle and locking into a tight embrace. Nina sobbed deeply into Angel's shoulder as he stood, holding her as tightly as human limits would allow.

They held each other for what seemed like forever. Bishop, curiously, felt time elongating as it did often times when he was in the cockpit. The pain in his knee went away. He focused in solely on Angel and Nina, holding each other for what seemed like the first time in front of him. Quite suddenly, he came to a realization. _This_ is what he had been fighting for. For this one moment to happen. It came flooding down onto his young shoulders as he watched Emory pull away. His friend kissed Nina deeply as tears fell down her face.

Strangely, there was no mad cheering. The room looked on quietly. Few people made eye contact, as they all, in Bishop included, felt salt-laden tears stinging their eyes.

"Guys...and, erm, Commander," Emory finally spoke, his voice thick. "This is Nina. Nina, these are my friends.

Nina quickly wiped the moisture from her face, smiling awkwardly, but beautifully, as she glanced around the room.

"Hi, everyone," she said, quietly.

Weissbach smiled as old men did and walked towards her, "Hi there. I'm Jerry."

"Nice to meet you, sir," Nina shook the man's hand, her eyes wide with intimidation as she saw the Commander's insignia on his collar.

"I don't know how you got on my ship so easily, young lady," he said, smiling. "But I'm glad you're here. Garrett is one of the best pilots in the fleet. Son," he said, turning to Emory, "if she's smart enough to get here...well, that's enough said about her. You'd better marry her."

Nina turned a shade of bright scarlett, covering her mouth as she giggled.

"Sir, I - uh, well..." Emory stammered, looking around nervously. "That's kinda my intention."

Bishop's mouth formed a wide smirk. He had known Angel long enough to know what was coming next.

"I wanted to wait until things kind of settled down, but..." Angel continued. Nina's face was a mix of embarrassment and shock.

Angel unzipped a pocket on the lower leg of his flight suit. Bishop's eyebrows furrowed slightly. He had never seen Angel use this pocket before.

The young pilot produced a battered-looking box from the pocket. It was creased, worn, and water-damaged. He opened it, revealing a small silver ring, with a simple, single bright stone worked into the band.

Bishop knew that precious metal was scarce during wartime, due to the manufacture of electronic components and other essential items necessary to the war effort. Any jewelry, anywhere, cost a fortune. He wondered what Angel had shorted himself on to get it.

"Nina," he said, awkwardly dropping to his knees. "I hope it's okay if I ask you this, here. Will you make me the happiest man alive? Will you marry me?"

She stood a moment, considering him as he knelt before her. Angel swallowed hard.

"I - I understand if this is a little sudden," he stammered. "But I really, I mean, I really..."

"Angel," she knelt down, facing him. "Shut up."

She smiled and nodded before she kissed him.

Weissbach's eyes creased as he smiled warmly. He walked from the room, chuckling to himself, saying something about kids.

* * *

One Month Later

Hypatia, Tauron

"You have been laying on the couch staring at the ceiling for literally forty-three minutes."

"So?" Bishop asked, his voice monotone.

The rebuilding process had varied from colony to colony. Admittedly, some were more damaged than others. However, the feelings of unease and indeed the feelings of grief had prevented some established towns and cities from taking initiative in getting back to the way life was. Hypatia, however, was not among those.

Bishop had returned to the moderately sized downtown apartment he had resided in with his parents prior to his enlistment and enrollment in the War College. Despite an initial shock at the layers of dust on the furniture, it had served him well as his severely injured knee healed. The process had been slow, at best. Perhaps it was the prolonged feeling of exhaustion that had lingered after the war - or perhaps it was the inability for Bishop to fly. Whatever it was, the young pilot had descended into a daily stupor that bordered upon depression - made worse by the occasional whine of distant Viper engines heard through the sultry summer heat.

Angel sat in a chair across from the supine Bishop. The sandy-haired pilot leered at his friend through narrowed hazel eyes. Both of them, strangely, were dressed in civilian clothes.

A slight breeze ruffled papers on the coffee table - held down by Bishop's sidearm, now little more than a paperweight. The papers bore the crest of the Colonial Defense Force, and Bishop had read their contained message so many times he almost could recite them word for word. The highlights were words such as mandatory, furlough, budget, medical, and reasons. Underneath the letter addressed to Bishop, was one addressed to Angel, also sporting the same address.

So they had stayed in Bishop's apartment, and tried to become accustomed to a much slower pace of life. Bishop found himself waking at odd hours of the night, convinced he had heard the call to action stations. He often tossed and turned, staring at the ceiling as his knee burned quietly with pain.

His thoughts often drifted back to the _Cathedral_ despite himself. Weissbach had called him a week prior - which he secretly delighted in. The Commander had talked for some time - sounding very tired as he explained that the _Cathedral_ was laid up in dry dock over Picon, finally getting the major repairs she had needed long before Bishop had placed his boots on her decks. Weissbach had also mentioned the prospect of retiring several times. Bishop, of course, told him that he strongly wished he wouldn't, however he also told him he understood. Weissbach had been in the Fleet for thirty years - longer than Bishop had been alive. The young pilot understood that everything eventually needed to come to an end - even the long and distinguished career like Weissbach's.

Bishop rolled all these thoughts around his head as he continued to stare at the ceiling. He wasn't worried about the money - he had little to spend his pay on during wartime, so finding work during furlough was not necessary. In fact, Bishop cautioned himself against spending the large amount of cash he had acquired during the war. The promotion to Major, along with combat pay, had raised his standard of living considerably. He still felt uncomfortable, though. He just couldn't adjust.

"Come on," Angel finally rose to his feet with exaggerated effort. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

Bishop hated using crutches. It drew stares from people as he and Angel walked slowly through downtown Hypatia. Most people correctly assumed Bishop's status as a member of the military, and went out of their way to stop and applaud him and express their well wishes for a speedy recovery from his combat induced injury. He tried to be as polite as he could with these people - however it wore on him to be an object of such high regard. More than anything, he wanted to keep a low profile during the furlough - seeing as his return to active duty would be only after the Fleet's war chest had bolstered its funds again.

The pair snuck quietly into the Charging Bull - the very same place they had dreamed of going to months prior. In terms of business, one would almost think the war had never happened upon viewing the crowd gathered. The round the clock efforts to rebuild Hypatia ensured there were _always_ thirsty and hungry patrons filling the ornate wooden structure. As Bishop and Angel remembered, music boomed with an equal volume of laughter. Sweet smelling fumella leaf smoke drifted to the ceiling. Heavy glassware - perspiring with cold drink - percussed against wooden tables laden with countless layers of shining varnish.

They slid into a side booth, and were quickly overtaken by a burst of floral scent.

"Hey baby," Nina smiled widely at Angel.

The young man smiled in return, scooting over to make room for his fiance and returning an enthusiastic kiss.

"Bishop, for frak's sake, smile," she said as she sat down next to Angel.

"Nina, I'm bored. And I'm about over being injured," Bishop sighed, taking a sip of beer.

"Of course you are, but what are you gonna do about it?" she smiled wryly at him, knowing the personality of the restless pilots around her.

"At least they're getting Pyramid going again," nodded the lifelong Caprican Buccaneers fan in Angel.

"I don't know how you can stand living here," Bishop, a diehard Tauron Bulls fan, smiled. Indeed, Bulls regalia was strewn over the walls of the bar they sat in - indeed an unfriendly place for a loyal follower of the hated C-Bucks.

Bishop drained his beer quickly and nodded for another. He examined his watch and sighed heavily, dreading an upcoming military-mandated therapy appointment. He almost hated to admit it to himself - but sometimes he fleetingly found himself _missing_ the war.

As he carried on a normal course of conversation with Angel and Nina, he silently berated himself for thinking such thoughts. He had witnessed too many men killed - indeed too many men under his command - to allow himself the luxury of missing the lifestyle.

He finished his second drink and tossed several cubits - under protest form Nina and Angel - on to the table. He limped out, smirking slightly.

* * *

Hypatia, Tauron

Three Weeks Later

By now, Bishop had discarded his crutches, under the stern supervision of his therapist. While he was directed to only walk unassisted at home, he secretly had thrown the crutches deep in his coat closet, retrieving them only to save face at appointments.

A same-day tape of a Pyramid game buzzed quietly on a screen set across from Bishop's couch. Only a week ago had picture broadcasts returned - something Bishop had missed dearly when the Bulls took in away games.

A sharp rap came at the door. Bishop raised an eyebrow. Angel and Nina never knocked, and the apartment rarely received visitors. Bishop walked with the aid of a stiff leg brace to his coffee table, and placed his sidearm in the small of his back, underneath his waistband.

He opened the door and immediately relaxed.

"Scott," smiled the face of Commander Adrian Nelson.

"Sir," Bishop nodded. "Come in, please."

Nelson, dressed in duty blues, stepped into the apartment. Bishop sized him up briefly.

"Still don't trust anything, huh, sir?" the aviator smiled at his superior, eying the holstered sidearm on the Commander's right thigh.

"Neither do you, I should say," he smirked in reply, lightly tapping the sidearm concealed under Bishop's shirt.

Bishop almost had to laugh. He had kept a somewhat regular correspondence with Nelson over the course of his injury - finding words of wisdom in the Basic Flight instructor's encouragement. However, he had never called upon Bishop. Until now.

"Coffee, sir?" Bishop limped quickly to his small kitchen, where a gurgling and well-worn pot steamed lazily.

"Always," the Commander said, stepping into the living room and accepting the large mug - on long-term loan from the _Cathedral_. He smirked as he sipped the scalding liquid from the over-sized cup blaring _BSG45 __CATHEDRAL_ on the side.

"How's the knee?" Nelson asked first, politely.

"Better every day, sir, but still a ways to go," Bishop admitted.

"Naturally. Please take your time recovering. You're far too valuable an asset to be lost to injury," Nelson nodded.

"Of course, sir," Bishop replied, sipping his own coffee.

"I'll get to it," Nelson said. "You probably know by now that Weissbach is retiring next week."

Bishop nodded, having sent his dress grays to be pressed and cleaned for the ceremony the day prior.

"This isn't quite official," Nelson continued. "But I'm sure I can tell you this in confidence, with Angel as an exception, but that's fine..."

The young pilot smirked slightly.

"van Buuren is also going to take his leave. This leaves a lot of spots open on the _Cathedral_," said the Commander. "I have been selected to take over as the new CO, Morrow will be my XO. This leaves a spot open at Tactical Officer. It won't be permanent, but as you recover, I think a little time in the CIC would do you well."

Bishop blinked hard, asking the obvious question next, "Do I really have a choice?"

"I'm afraid not," Nelson smiled. "I chose you because I need men who are respected by the crew and intimately familiar with the ship. I need those men to serve directly under me to keep me in line - at least for the first few months of deployment."

"The _Cathedral_ is being deployed?" Bishop asked, shocked. "I thought-"

"Repairs are ahead of schedule," Nelson finished. "She's almost brand-new again. You should see her, Scott, it's like the day she was commissioned."

Bishop sat back in awe. The _Cathedral_ was headed out again. And he was going to be on it.

"We sail in ten days," smirked Nelson, swallowing the rest of his coffee with gusto. "You might want to inform Captain Emory of his new position as acting CAG."

Almost on cue, Angel and Nina walked through the door. Nina's eyebrows shot up into her hairline.

"Acting _what?_"

* * *

CDF BSG 45 _Cathedral_  
Scorpion Ship Yards

The move from the Picon dry dock and fleet headquarters to Scorpion had let the cat out of the bag. No ships move to the Scorpion Yards without intentions of deployment. This created an excited buzz around the massive Colonial outpost, one that met young Major Scott Mason's ears as the side hatch to his Raptor opened on the hangar deck.

It smelled and looked much like it did the last time he had arrived. Which, thinking back, was not well-received by Command staff.

"And here we are again," Angel said, smiling despite himself. He hiked up his duffel higher on his shoulder, quickly looking back to make sure Bishop was making progress.

The Major muttered something profane as he awkwardly descended off the shuttle and on to the hanger deck. He looked up and nodded and Angel, smirking.

"Why do I feel like I'm going aboard to drive a desk?" inquired Bishop. "I mean, I know it's temporary, but still..."

"Hell, you might like it," replied the acting CAG as the pair paused for a crossing forklift. "You get to do lots of cool shit. Fire the guns, giving _actual_ orders, you know what the job is."

Bishop sighed as they turned down a long hallway toward the _Cathedral_'s dock, "As do you. Doesn't mean that you would like it, now, would it?"

"It would be an interesting change of pace," Angel mused as he slowed his pace noticeably to walk with Bishop. "You could look at it as a way to bolster your resume, too, you know."

"I guess," said Bishop. They continued for another hundred meters or so before presenting their papers to a pair of young Fleet Marines stationed outside the door of the _Cathedral_. With their rank insignia shining brightly on the collars of their blue duty uniforms, little was questioned about their presence or intentions once on board.

Bishop attempted to slow his heart rate down as his boots touched the deck of the _Cathedral_ once again. He recognized the scent of the air and the glow of the lights. Everything appeared to be much cleaner since he had last seen the inside of the Battlestar more than two months prior.

They trekked the familiar path to the senior officer's quarters. The ship was unusually quiet. The normal flow of hundreds of crew and the ubiquitous overhead pages and notifications absent. Even the low hum of the ship's engines was barely noticeable - as the ship idled quietly at the dock.

The senior officer's quarters, of course, remained unchanged. Someone had been nice enough to equip the room with a newer, albeit slightly used, couch and tables. Bishop threw his ruck onto the floor beside his narrow bunk, and sat down with a sigh, elevating his left leg onto the coffee table with some effort.

Angel walked to the coffee machine and stared at it, mumbling something about people disconnecting the power.

The door opened, much to the surprise of both young men. Nelson strode in, smirking. Angel quickly snapped to attention, and Bishop struggled to get his leg under him.

"As you were, for frak's sake," Nelson sighed, loosening his collar and taking a seat in one of the worn chairs. "Good to see you boys made it safe."

"It's good to be back, sir," Bishop admitted truthfully. "It was getting a little desperate on Tauron."

"I imagine it was," nodded the Commander. "The rest of the command staff will arrive later today. I was thinking we could all get together for dinner tonight, iron out some things, and then get ready for departure in a week's time or so."

Bishop and Angel nodded, each choosing to remain silent.

"Scott, you might want to take a look at this," the Commander tossed him a moderately-sized binder, blaring the title: _CDF BSG 45 Battlestar __Cathedral__ Tactical Officer Handbook of Duties and Responsibilities._

"I...see," Bishop said quietly, not quite hiding his unease. "Thank you, sir."

"And I trust that you can fill in Mr. Emory on the responsibilities of CAG?" Nelson asked, rather unnecessarily.

"Of course," nodded the former CAG as Angel wore an expression of unease and disdain.

"Excellent. I have a pretty good feeling about this cruise, guys. This is going to be a young and energetic crew. I imagine a lot of the men and women are going to be just as restless as you two were to get back out in it."

"I hope it stays quiet, though," finished the Commander. "I could do without any bloodshed."

"We all could do without it, sir," agreed Bishop.

* * *

"Mr. Mason."

Bishop - or rather, Mister Mason as he was refereed to in the CIC - blinked furiously and shook his head, "Sir?"

"Can we get you some more coffee?" smirked Nelson, standing on the other side of the nav table and smirking.

"Um, no, sir, thank you," Mason said, his eyes glancing down at the full, steaming mug in front of him.

"If you please, then, the orders," Nelson was almost laughing.

Mason felt himself turn a deeper shade of red. His mind had been reeling as he stood - to the best of his ability - behind the nav table. He was wearing the modified duty blue uniform - as Nelson embraced the feeling of tradition and pride it instilled in the crew. He glanced at the hash marks on his sleeve - one for every three years of service. The medals on his chest - the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Combat Wounded medal - stood out in the dim lighting. The insignia of major stood out on his collar, and his Viper wings stood out proudly among some of the other officers who had forgone flight training in favor of chasing the command ranks.

"Helm, release moorings - reverse one quarter sublight," Mason repeated the command promptly. In the interest of accountability and decorum, orders were always repeated from the officer who held the conn to the tactical officer, and then repeated back from the particular young officer who held the station to the tactical officer. It was a concept called three hundred sixty degree communication, and reduced the number of errors in the orders.

"Release moorings, one quarter reverse, aye, sir."

The _Cathedral_ hummed under their feet as she had done nearly three months ago as she had steamed into combat. It seemed like years to Bishop, whose leg felt almost instantly better as the calming vibration of the massive Battlestar worked its way through the sole of his boot and into his very bones. The fifteen hundred meters of ship eased slowly and gracefully from the Scorpion Yards, the angry, alligator-shaped nose turning in a wide arc toward open space.

"Miss Connoway, shipwide broadcast," Nelson said calmly, completely at ease. Mason admired the man as he stood in the exact spot where Weissbach had stood just a few months prior. He knew that the new Commander had to be intimidated, taking on a command such as the _Cathedral_. Her Tactical Officer (Acting) smiled to himself as he reflected on the tight-knit nature of the crew, and the pride that they took in each other and the very ship itself. They were good - and they _knew _it.

"Shipwide, aye, sir," nodded the blonde head of Lieutenant Connoway - Communications Officer.

"Crew of the _Cathedral_, this is your Commander," Nelson began. Activity among the two thousand plus souls slowed as each person gathered around the nearest available commo station.

"Three months ago, you showed the citizens of the Colonies your deep and unrelenting resolve to protect them at all costs from Cylon forces. And three months ago, the great war ended. I, along with the rest of the Fleet, personally applaud you and thank you for your efforts. You all truly exemplify what it is to be a Battlestar and her crew."

Scattered applause and cheers were heard around the ship. Bishop smirked slightly and took a sip of coffee as he watched Nelson continue.

"Now our mission takes on a different tone. We must now be ever-vigilant. No one knows why our enemy disappeared. No one knows their plan - their strategy. But we must - and we will - stand ready to intercept and terminate any and all threats to the Twelve Colonies with swift and awesome prejudice! Make no mistake, crew of the _Cathedral_, we are the best for a reason. The Cylons who fell beneath our boots and our guns and our Vipers now check _under their bunks in hell_ for anyone wearing a _Cathedral_ patch - and there we shall be, waiting for them!"

Colonel Morrow - his insignia still in mint condition - stood tall on the deck, and filled his lungs, "So say we all!"

Being third down on the chain-of-command, Mason immediately joined the second chorus, _"So say we all!"_

The phrase echoed through the ship. Nelson smirked with confidence. He took an ornate envelope from his pocket and broke the waxed seal. He glanced at it briefly.

"Our orders are to jump to the outer edge of Sector Twelve, and establish a perimeter along with the _Valkyrie, _the _Olympia_, and the _Galactica_. We will now constitute the first patrol of the newly established demilitarized space. We are to go as far as we dare, and draw a line in the sand. This operation has been codenamed _Colonial Shield_, and it will be an ongoing effort from this moment forward. Helm, set course for Colonial Sector Twelve and rig for FTL jump!"

"Set course sector twelve for FTL jump, aye!" Mason repeated crisply. Something moved very deep inside of him as he rattled the order off. His uniform felt powerful. He felt - strangely - very much at home as he stood in the CIC. This made him uneasy, as he had never felt at home in any other place other than the cockpit of a Viper.

"Coordinates set, sir, sector twelve, standing by!"

Mason glanced at Nelson, and nodded. Nelson's face broke into the familiar, cocky smirk worn by anyone who called themselves a pilot.

"Let's go."


End file.
